Retribution
by neonchica
Summary: Dean and Sam return to the town of a hunt they finished months ago when Dean goes missing.  As Sam frantically turns the town upside down in search of his brother, Dean must endure torture at the hand of his captor.  Surprises and whumpage abound!
1. Chapter 1

**_Alright, here we go with another one. This idea stems from being forced to watch the first 3 SAW movies in one fell swoop and doing whatever I could to keep my sanity through them all. It has far progressed beyond the original idea, but somewhere within you will find a similar concept to the movie. On another note, yes, I know I have a habit of going to the extreme when it comes to maiming Dean. I'm sorry, I just can't help myself. However, this is about as extreme as it gets. After this I'm backing off - promise. Hehe. Hopefully it won't seem too redundant. The story is complete, so save any unexpected interruptions I should be able to post on a regular basis (most likely every 3 days)._**

**_I should also add that this is the first story I have had beta'd, so a big shout out goes to Obaona who offered relentless and much appreciated hints and suggestions on improving my writing. It has improved tenfold because of you. Thanks again!_**

**_Disclaimer: Standard one. I don't own the boys, but anything you don't recognize is solely my imagination. _**

**_Reviews are love!_**

He wakes up slowly, the groggy feeling a constant presence within his mind. That - and the nagging insistence that something is wrong. Seriously wrong. It seems to take forever for his weary eyes to focus on anything, and when they do he immediately wishes he has never let them come back into focus in the first place. The overhead light is blinding, so bright he immediately closes his eyes again to prepare himself before finally opening them for good. When he does, it is done with a hesitant squint as he tries to see something more than just intense light.

"There you go. That's it. Come on, boy. Wake up now." That voice is annoying, filtering in and out of his brain in a hollow echo of disjointed sound. It sounds...off...somehow. The fog in his mind isn't allowing for much coherent thought, but there is just something about the voice, whose it is, where it is coming from, that simply doesn't sound right.

And then the light dims a little - or maybe his eyes just finally get used to it. Either way, he is finally able to take a look around at his surroundings, and he isn't sure whether to be disappointed or pleased. He'd thought he was in a hospital at first, but this is most definitely not a hospital. The walls are just simple grey block and mortar, the staggered seams a clear sign that the room has been poorly built. The ceiling is industrial in design, with a standard concrete cap and long florescent lights that hang down from cables. Everything is bare, nondescript, yet that is par for the course. It isn't the first time he's ended up in old, boring, drab buildings in his line of work.

What is odd, is that the voice is still talking to him, pushing him to wake up. Yet no one is in sight. _Where the hell is that coming from? And who the hell is talking?_

He opens his mouth, ready to call out to his brother, but the voice interrupts him before he can utter a sound.

"There now. So glad to see you finally awake. I was beginning to think you would sleep the whole day away." A hollow laughter sounds, followed by a slight sucking whoosh, and it finally sets in that the voice doesn't belong to anyone he knows.

"Who's there?" he demands angrily, attempting for the first time to sit up. Immediately he realizes he is shackled down. Nothing moves, nothing gives, and he growls louder. "Where the hell am I?"

"Tsk tsk, such language," the voice reprimands as answer, and then goes silent without explanation.

He pulls at his restraints once again, trying to crane his neck to see what kind of restraints are holding him in place, when he suddenly realizes that he can feel no restraints. As a matter of fact, he can't feel anything at all. His neck won't move to give him a glimpse of what he's trying to see, and that scares the shit out of him before he realizes that there is one part of his body he can feel. His face, his head, clearly have feeling in them as is evidenced by the throbbing headache that suddenly comes to light. And as he moves his eyes about in their sockets, frantically scanning in every direction they can move, he realizes there are bars on either side of his head running vertical from somewhere above his head to somewhere below his chin. But he can't see what they're attached to, and he doesn't know what purpose they serve.

"What the hell is this?" he shouts, the veins in his forehead and neck bulging from the strain of trying to move, to no avail. His eyes dart back and forth frantically as he desperately searches for something to latch onto that might give him a clue of what's going on. Realization hits like a giant boulder to his gut as he discovers that he has no defense against his attacker. "Who are you?!"

"You know me," the voice replies. "And in time, you will know how."

"What? Who are you? Show your face, damn it. Let me see your face!" He screams it now, as the fear grips him more. He can feel himself quivering with rage and determination – at least the parts that are capable of movement – and rivers of sweat drip down the side of his face and into his hair from the exertion. He continues his fight for movement, the muscles spasming uncontrollably in his neck, but nothing happens. Nothing moves.

He fights the hyperventilation he can feel coming on, and wins. But what is the gain in winning one fight only to face another, more daunting one? It's one thing to face an unknown attacker; to go up against someone you can't see, can't touch. But this - this total inability to even gain control over his body - this is something totally different, and he has no idea how he can fight something when he can't even move. And suddenly he comes to the heart-stopping realization that if he's in this situation, his brother might be too, and that scares him even more.

"Where's my brother? What have you done to him?"

The voice laughs again, deep and evil. Cold. And then he hears another of those sucking whoosh things, before it yields an answer to its captive. "Your brother is fine, for now. He won't come into this for some time yet. You'll know when he's here."

If it weren't for the thick sound of taunting, he might almost have considered that a reassurance, but instead he goes crazy with fear. "You touch a hair on his head and I swear I'll kill you. I'll fucking kill you. You hear me?"

More hollow chuckles follow, echoing all around him in the small room. "You have such a way with words, boy. Unfortunately for you, I happen to know just how idle those threats are, coming from you." The sound is interrupted by yet another sucking whoosh, and he realizes that it seems to come at constant intervals. But the thought escapes him as he hears the rest of what the voice has to say. "You can no more _kill_ me than you can scratch your own nose. I've seen to that."

_You've seen to that? _"What the hell is that supposed to mean? What have you done to me?!" It amazes him just how quickly his confidence has waned just in knowing the voice is right. He can't move; and yet he tries to lift a finger anyway, just in case something has changed since the last time he tried. The pain in his head seems to increase with the effort he puts into moving something, and he finally just gives up when the pain becomes too much.

"I've done to you what you did you me. "I've taken away your ability. I've taken away your life."

"What the fuck?" he demands yet again, still confused by what he's hearing. He swallows convulsively, his adams apple bobbing up and down in his throat. "What did you do to me?!"

"Show him!" The voice booms out, and he feels as though his head might actually explode as it echoes around him, bouncing off the walls in a way porous concrete really shouldn't, and he suddenly knows for a fact that the voice does not originate within the walls of his confinement. Suddenly he knows it's coming from a speaker somewhere in the room.

But he also realizes he's not alone as the bed he's laying on is now raised up. His head screams out in agony as it elevates and something pulls against his temples, but the remainder of his body remains immobile, unfeeling, and he suddenly feels as though he is just a floating head. And he wonders if maybe it is just his head still there, and wonders if it's possible to survive as just a head. Suddenly, the pain is welcome, because it means he can feel something - it means a part of him is still there.

When the bed is raised completely, a woman steps out from behind it and crosses the room to the opposite side. She looks straight ahead, and he can't see her face yet because she has yet to turn to him. So all he can see is the hair pulled into a tight ponytail, brown, with just a few flecks of grey scattered in for good measure. He assumes she has some kind of a figure - she's not heavy by any definition - but whatever there is, is hidden underneath a shapeless pair of scrub pants and a white lab coat.

"Who are you?" he pleads to the retreating figure, wishing he could reach out and grab her arm to stop her, but once again realizing that that isn't possible. "Please - you can help me. You can let me go," he tries instead.

Instead of acknowledging his pleas, she simply finalizes her trek over to the floor length mirror with its wooden back facing him, and flips it over in its frame, finally revealing to him what he has become.

* * *

A harsh, strangled yell defines Sam's wakening, followed immediately by several more seconds of hyperventilation as he tries desperately to recognize his surroundings. His eyes dart frantically around the room, recognition failing to become a reality. His memory is fluff, mind bleary and disoriented. It's only after common sense takes over that he manages to fully take in the room he's in, but that knowledge does nothing to ease his over-active mind as he finally realizes he's alone.

The freshly painted walls are white, as are the lights overhead and the sheets and blankets on his bed. Everywhere he looks he sees white, and at his cry he is soon joined by a white-wearing nurse as she rushes in to see what the commotion is with her patient.

"Mr. Keyser, please calm down. Please, Mr. Keyser, I don't want to have to have you sedated."

It takes him a minute to realize who this Mr. Keyser is that she keeps talking to, and unconsciously scans the room for another occupant before finally realizing she is looking directly at him. _It's you, you fool!_ He reprimands his groggy mind, reminding himself that he can't be Sam _Winchester._ Keyser is just the newest in a long line of aliases he and Dean have created. _Where is Dean? _Sam responds to the gentle yet firm voice issuing orders to his flailing self, immediately forcing his breathing to come back under his control as he recognizes his desire to not be placed under sedation. He finally slows his breathing and brings his eyes into focus, meeting the concerned gaze of the nurse immediately. He needs to be in control - he needs to assess the situation.

She smiles down at him as she realizes he's finally alright, and she releases her tight hold on his shoulders. "There now, that's better, right? Are you with me now?"

"Dean?" is Sam's answer, the pleading in his voice causing the nurse's brows to turn downward in concern and slight confusion.

"Who's Dean, sweetheart?" she prompts gently.

He stares at her as though she's grown a second head. _Who's Dean? You don't know Dean? He's the guy who hasn't left my bedside ever since you brought me in here, except of course for right now when he's clearly gone to the bathroom or to get himself another steaming cup of disgusting hospital coffee. _

"Who is Dean, Mr. Keyser?" she asks again, slightly louder this time as she tries to break him from his trance.

"My brother," he croaks out in confusion. _Why isn't he here? _And then it hits him, sucker punches him is more like it, as he remembers the accident that has obviously put him here. People were disappearing, vanishing into thin air. They had no logical reason to be seeking out this particular hunt, except for the undeniable indication that months earlier there had been supernatural activity in the area. They had come then, too, and the demon had been vanquished to hell. But there was always the possibility of another demon being dispatched to the area. That had to be it.

So he and Dean had hit the road, driving in the pouring rain, and were just miles from the town, minutes from pulling off at a run down motel and getting themselves a room to catch a good night's sleep before heading out the next day for recon, when the woman had come out of the middle of nowhere. She stood in the middle of the road, unwavering, and Dean slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting the obstruction in their way. But the road was wet, and the car fishtailed, and the next thing he knew they were slamming through a guardrail and plummeting down the side of the steep incline. The last thing he remembered before the front grill of the Impala slammed into a tree thirty some feet below was Dean crying out in angered desperation as he continued to force the brake pedal down in a futile attempt to stop the car's momentum.

"He's my brother," Sam repeats more desperately this time. "And he was in the accident too. He was driving."

It is his nurse's turn to reflect confusion and her face screws up into a combination of that, worry, and anxiety as she weighs her options on her reply. The way she pulls her lip between her teeth, chewing nervously as she breaks eye contact with Sam, tells him that she's hiding something from him; debating over how much information to offer.

Sam makes the decision for her when he demands an answer as he begins to crawl from the bed he's confined to. "I have to find him," he insists. "If you don't know where he is I'll go find him myself."

Her hand is on his shoulder, pushing him back into the bed before he can re-injure himself too much. "Honey, I'll tell you what I know," she offers. "Just...please, stay in bed. You're still weak."

Sam nods, in agreement for the time being. But his hand remains on the edge of the sheets, ready to bolt the minute he hears something he doesn't want to hear; the minute he hears that Dean is injured worse than him and that he might possibly need him. Because the only reason he can think of that Dean isn't at his bedside is that he physically can't be there, and that's downright scary.

She runs a hand through her hair, exhaling loudly as her eyes toy with where to land. She doesn't look him in the eye, averting her gaze every time Sam tries to draw her in. But finally something seems to click in her mind and suddenly she's staring him down, boring into his eyes in a desperate attempt to convince him. "Honey, you were alone when they found you. There was no one else with you - your brother, Dean, he wasn't there."

Sam shakes his head, disbelieving what she's just told him. "No," he protests. "No, he was driving. He was there. Did you check the area around the car? Could he have been thrown out? Or...or gone for help and maybe collapsed later?" Panic seeps into his voice as the terror of that possibility eeks into his consciousness. "You have to go find him!" Sam cries louder, sitting up again to the protest of his very clearly injured ribs. But he doesn't care. Dean is out there. Dean is injured. And no one even knows to be looking.

Again, the nurse places a hand against Sam's shoulder, holding him down as sadness for his fears shows through in her face. "Sam, they found _you_ in the driver's seat," she insists. "I'm telling you, there was no one else in the car. I don't know where your brother is, but he wasn't injured in that accident. He wasn't there."

It's there that Sam realizes something is seriously wrong. He knows - without a fraction of a doubt - that Dean was in the car with him. He knows _he_ wasn't driving. And he knows for certain that they have stumbled full on into the hunt they came to do. Dean has just become the latest victim.

* * *

Dean's first view of what has become of his body scares the shit out of him. It might have been easier to take if he really was just a head floating on a pillow - that would have made sense. But instead, he sees his full body, naked save for a sheet draped over his privates, and an IV port in the back of his right hand, and it looks normal. There's no reason he can see for why he has no feeling from the neck down, no explanation for why nothing will move. But he can see why he's in so much agony from the neck up, and it's all he can do to suppress a scream.

The voice seems to know when he's taken in the framework on his head, and intercedes Dean's tormented thoughts. "Ingenious, isn't it? What a great marvel of torture that thing is, yes?" It stops; waits for an acknowledgment of some sort from his victim. But doesn't seem too disappointed when Dean simply continues to stare in pure terror at his image in the mirror.

"They call it a halo brace. And you know, the clincher of it is, that this thing is a miracle of modern medicine. It's not some product of a sick, demented serial killer. No, no, no, my boy, this brace is created by doctors."

"Why are you doing this to me, you sick fuck?" Dean demands, spittle flying from his mouth as his eyes once again search for the source of the voice. But there's nothing, and he quickly finds himself reverting back to staring at his own image. It's no wonder he can't move his neck, and it's no wonder his head hurts so god damn much.

The halo, as the voice called it, is a piece of curved metal circling around his forehead at temple level, resembling a halo in view alone, and not at all in saintliness. Attached to it at four points are the bars Dean had noticed earlier, trailing down to a piece of plastic molded over top of his shoulders and chest. But none of that would be so bad if it isn't for the fact that the halo is physically screwed into his skull by two bolts into his forehead. And by the feel of it, he's willing to bet there are two more somewhere around the back of his head.

"Retribution," the voice explains in a sickeningly calm explanation, as though he's simply said 'please pass the salt.' Except, Dean realizes, that that's not so simple anymore. Because right now he can't even _pick up_ the salt, let alone pass it to anyone…or shoot it at anyone, or even lay down a protective barrier to keep his captor from coming near him. And that's only providing that his captor isn't human – which he's not entirely certain about.

"I don't understand!" Dean screams. "What did I do to you? I don't even know who you are!"

"You'll know. You'll remember. When I want you to."

Dean realizes that he's getting nowhere with the intangible voice coming from everywhere, and nowhere, and decides he'll have better luck with the actual person in the room. He calls to her, unsure why he hadn't noticed before that she never turned around after she flipped the mirror over. She still stands facing the wall, arms straight at her sides, unmoving.

"Miss...please, miss. I could really use your help over here," Dean calls out, desperation strongly apparent in his voice. He fears he might actually shed a tear or two if he can't figure out some way to gain control of the situation.

She doesn't move. But the voice speaks up again. "You won't get anywhere doing that," it mocks in a voice that is faintly sing-song. "She answers only to me, Dean. She's mine. I made her."

Dean notices pride in the hollows of the echoing voice, recognizes it as that of a father - though how he would know what that kind of pride truly sounds like, he isn't sure. But he is certain that this man speaks the truth. "You made her?" he questions, adding doubt to his voice and his own version of cynical laughter to seal the deal; he knows the best way to elicit answers from a boasting man is to convey doubt in his success.

Sure enough, the voice responds in irritation, yet a need to brag is very near the surface and he spills all. "She's a zombon," it explains proudly, clearly pleased when Dean responds with enough of a look of confusion to show he has never heard of such a thing. "She's not really a zombie, because she has never died. But she's also not really a demon, because _it_ doesn't control her. I do; hence, a zombon."

"You mean to tell me there's a real person in there? She's still alive in there?" Dean demands, although he already knows the answer to that one. He just realizes he needs to keep his captor talking as long as possible until he's able to figure his way out of this. The more they talk, the better chance he stands at getting some pertinent information. And lord only knows he could stand to have some pertinent information as soon as possible.

"Of course," the man laughs, as though anything to the alternative is utterly ridiculous. "She was a prominent doctor in her heyday. Still could be someday. Now she's _your_ personal doctor. You should feel honored."

"Honored my ass," Dean replies, getting fed up with the minimum field of answers he's been receiving. The answers just aren't enough. "I'll feel honored when you tell me why the fuck you're doing this to me, and then let me go."

"I think I've heard enough," the voice booms angrily through the speaker. "It's time for you to sleep."

Dean's eyes widen, as he realizes his captor's order has prompted the zombon woman to spring into action. She crosses the room to Dean's bedside, and he can finally see her face - the face of a reasonably attractive forty something whose eyes are void of life. She sees him, but only the him that is a patient in her care, and with no expression whatsoever on her blank face, she fills a syringe from the tray at Dean's side and injects it into the IV port. His eyes follow the plastic tubing down to his hand as he only just now fully takes in the needle embedded into the top of his numb hand. But that is the last conscious thought he has as the fast acting drug takes effect and he finds himself pulled into a heavy, dreamless slumber.

* * *

The nurse flits around Sam for several more minutes, taking his vitals, changing the fluid bag on his IV, making notes in his chart, but he barely notices this action as his mind dwells wholeheartedly on the odd events surrounding Dean's disappearance. His head is killing him, pounding out an entire drum line solo, and it makes it hard to focus on the facts. But he's determined to get to the bottom of this. Dean needs him at his best.

"What would Dean do?" he mutters to himself, immediately smiling as he envisions his impulsive brother turning the entire hospital upside down and inside out in search of the younger Winchester. But as soon as that thought passes his mind, Sam realizes the fault in that logic. He already knows his brother is nowhere inside the walls of the hospital; according to the nurse, he wasn't even in the car, so there's no way Dean could have made it to the hospital. Which means Sam has a much larger span of ground to cover if he plans to find his missing sibling, and the longer he waits the colder the trail gets. He's got to get out of the hospital now.

Mind made up, Sam sets his sights on implementing his escape, and gingerly sits up. His ribs scream in protest against the pressure his new vertical position causes. His head swims. And his stomach does a series of flip-flops in direct proportion to the pain. But he pushes through it, thoughts set on one – and only one – thing. He has to find Dean.

There's an irrational thought running through his head that Dean should know better than to disappear like this. His bastard of a brother has the nerve to call _him_ selfish, but Dean _knows _better. He _knows_ what it feels like to have someone disappear out from under his watch, _knows_ what it's like to be so panicked and out of his mind with worry that he can't think straight. He _knows_ what it's like to have to go on a blind hunt with no leads and the certainty of limited time. Pa Bender and his spawn made sure of that. Yet he has the nerve to disappear on Sam without a word. Without an explanation. Without a goodbye.

Sam lets out a faint laugh at his illogical line of reasoning, and forces himself to believe that Dean isn't doing this to 'show him how it feels.' But that actually makes the situation worse, more dire, and that's all Sam needs to set himself in motion.

A shaky hand grips the IV port, and he pulls the needle out with a sharp hiss of pain. He's never liked needles; never enjoyed the thought of a piece of sharp metal passing through his skin despite the multitude of saving qualities said metal seems to have. But like everything else in his life, Sam ignores his feelings for more important things, like Dean.

Sam uses two fingers to staunch the flow of blood that seeps out from the vein the needle has previously occupied, sitting still on the bed and allowing his head to stop spinning while he waits for the clotting effect to take place. But soon a deep breath of resuscitative air brings him back to the present and he knows it's time to leave.

He closes his eyes tight against the pain and pulls himself to his feet, swaying unsteadily until he finally gets a handle on his balance. He dresses as quickly as his addled mind will allow and then stumbles across the room like a drunken madman, clutching tight to any solid object he can find to keep himself upright. Clinging tightly to the doorframe, Sam peeks his head out into the hall and waits for it to clear. He takes the first opportunity he has to clear out of the hospital, sneaking in full on Winchester stealth from the sixth floor to the exit in a matter of minutes. Only then, as his bruised and battered body issues a protest to being taken prematurely from the comfort of a soft hospital bed and pain meds, does he realize that he has no idea where to go from there and no way to get there even if he had a clue. The car is wrecked, and lord only knows where. But he can't stay here either, because he's certainly not taking the chance that they'll drag him back to his bed and strap him in. Not when Dean's missing. So he starts walking, going to the right because at least he can see another road from that angle, and as he walks he's thoroughly able to assess the injuries that he had been too busy to hear about earlier.

A definite concussion - that one doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out, and a least two, no make that three cracked ribs. _Shit._ His right hand is bruised, the wrist clearly sprained, but not broken and he's grateful for that. And the sharp, knife-like pains shooting through his leg tells him that he's injured his right knee, too, but the stiff walking brace assures him that he can manage through the pain. He has to find Dean. Dean would push the pain out of his thoughts, just work through it until it was nothing more than a mere memory. If Dean can do that, Sam is certain he can too.

So he focuses on ignoring the pain until the problem is no longer his injuries, but rather, Dean's predicament. Because, as Sam has learned in his earlier research, there is no trace of the missing people, and he has no leads to follow. But that's not the half of it, and he's already cursing himself as he limps onward toward the road up ahead. Because three people have gone missing in the course of three months time, and all three of them were hospital personnel - one a doctor and two nurses. So there's a definite pattern there, and he has no way to question anyone at the staff now that he's run away from the hospital - at least not until he has a chance to clean himself up and get a killer disguise. But then another question comes to the surface, because there _is _a definite pattern to the disappearances, until Dean went missing. Sure, Dean can sew a stitch like a pro, and he is pretty darn good at wrapping ribs, too. But he's far from professional medical staff, and that just about makes Sam's entire case go belly up.

He lets out a low moan of anguish as the road comes into view and sees there's no other building in sight for at least a quarter of a mile in either direction down the straight stretch of road, and it may be longer; his eyesight really isn't doing much for him as it wavers in and out of focus. He makes it maybe a few hundred feet further before it goes black completely and he does a face plant on the gravel shoulder with a final cry. "Dean..."


	2. Chapter 2

**_Alright, here is chapter 2 of a story that is solely gratuitous whumpage based on my own sick twisted thoughts. Hehe. Hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading._**

It's the sound of traffic whooshing past his head that first brings Sam back around, and he pushes himself up with his arms halfway before dropping immediately back down as his wrist and ribs protest fervently to their punishment. The hard ground pushing against his bruised ribcage is painful, and Sam can't hold back the wince and groan that bounce off the concrete, his mouth close to the ground. He hasn't even completely touched down again when he feels the small hands gripping the backs of his shoulders, pulling him back up.

"Easy there," he hears a soft voice soothe, as the hands start to rub gentle circles into his back. "Just take it slow. Do you feel dizzy?"

Sam blinks his eyes, trying to push himself back up again as he angles his body in an attempt to link a face to the voice, but his ribs scream out at him to stop before he can catch sight of his aide and he curls in on himself, arms hugging tight to his chest. "No," he grits out. "Not dizzy. Just– oh man, what the hell happened?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," his rescuer says, eagerly reaching out to assist him as he tries once again to sit up. With her help, he finally does manage to make it up this time, but he's not sure if he would be able to stay upright if she were to let go of her firm hold.

"I was driving home from work when I saw you decide to play kissy face with the ground here." She laughs nervously, clearly unsure where her place is with him. "If you don't mind me saying, you look like death warmed over."

A sardonic snort emits from Sam's nose before he is able to stop himself as he looks at his savior with curiosity. "You sure know how to make a guy feel good about himself."

She backs away a few inches before coming to a rest on the balls of her feet, having the grace to look embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I just wasn't expecting to see someone take a nose dive on the side of the road. Are you sure you're okay? Can I give you a ride to the hospital?"

"No!" Sam spits out frantically. He instantly reminds himself to calm down, not to scare the poor girl, and tries again. "I'm sorry. No, please. I can't go back to the hospital. There's no time."

She looks confused. "No time? Someone going to die or something?" She chuckles to herself at her own joke, but cuts it off short when she sees the way Sam is staring at her, fear and desperation written all over his features. "There's not–"

_Oh god, I hope not_, he thinks. "Can...can you just help me up?" Sam asks, in lieu of an answer. "I really need to be going."

She clearly doesn't believe he's being even remotely honest with her, but assists him to his feet anyway with a nod of apprehension. "I guess you've got to get up sometime, right?" she says, chewing on her bottom lip,

They take it slow, and the girl ends up supporting most of Sam's body weight before finally managing to lean him up against the car for additional support. Sam's uninjured arm immediately goes for the sideview mirror and he slumps against it and the window, effectively allowing his rescuer a chance to relinquish her tight hold on him. Although, she doesn't completely let go.

Circling around in front of Sam, the girl grabs for his chin and angles it downward so she can get a better look at his face. Her free hand goes for his eyes, prying his eyelids open one at a time as she stares intently into his eyes, but not saying a word until she's done. "You don't seem to have any side effects of concussion," she finally says as Sam tugs uncomfortably away from her unwanted grip.

"I'm fine," Sam says, although his grimace doesn't quite allow for the reassurance he's going for.

"Uh huh. You're fine," she says sarcastically. Then pauses, thinking. "Maybe I can give you a ride somewhere that isn't the hospital," she offers. Her eyes reveal hope, pleading that he'll take her up on it. It's a curious reaction, a perfect stranger begging to give another a ride. In today's world people just don't do that. But Sam's not really thinking straight, and the little focus he does have is on Dean. Finding Dean. Finding Dean fast.

Sam nods, hesitantly at first and then more agreeably as his conviction to locate his brother gains ground in his mind. He sees the relief in his companion's expression.

"That would be wonderful," he agrees a little breathlessly as he comes to his full height and stretches his broken ribs beyond their capacity. He allows the girl to lead him from his tedious hold on the mirror to the waiting seat, realizing as they go that she is still a stranger to him. "I don't even know your name," he groans, once again wrapping the ribs with his arms as he bends to slide into the van. He can't hide the wince and concern immediately reappears on the girl's face.

"It's Lori Ann," she answers and then rushes into, "are you sure I can't take you to the hospital? You really don't look well."

"I'm sure," Sam says, the injury to his ribs making it hard to catch a full breath. "And I'm Sam...Keyser. He sucks in a deep breath and winces again. Thanks. For giving me. A ride." The way she continues to stare at Sam, assessing him as they pull out onto the road, he knows she's beginning to doubt her willingness to not turn directly back into the hospital lot, and he feels he owes her some semblance of an explanation to keep her motivated.

"My...brother was taken," he offers, waiting to see her reaction before he continues. If she freaks out, he can always cover by saying 'he was taken into surgery and never came back out,' or something as inane as that that just might still make her take pity on her poor, damaged passenger. But much to his disbelief, she jumps right on that as though it's her own story to tell.

"My gosh, that's horrible," she cries, bringing her hand to her mouth to show her sympathy. "I've been hearing about all the disappearances lately. Do you think it was the same person? Do the police have any leads yet?"

Sam winces. She has to bring the police into this, doesn't she. He shakes his head vigorously. "They have nothing," he says quickly, certain that his statement isn't entirely a lie. "I just can't sit-" he sucks in a deep breath before he can continue. "On my butt in." Another deep breath. "A hospital all. Day and do nothing while. He's out there somewhere. I have to find him."

Lori Ann looks at him askance. "You can't possibly think you're going out in search of your brother in your condition. You don't even know where to start looking...and even if you did– wait, you _don't_ know where to look, do you?"

"No," Sam sighs, shaking his head despondently. "Unfortunately I have no leads. But I intend to find some. I'll get my brother back."

"I'm sure you will," she replies, voice jumping an octave as though she doesn't quite believe him but she's trying to pacify him. She hesitates, hand opening and closing nervously around the steering wheel, and then finally decides to take the plunge.

"Look, um, Sam. I admire your grit, I really do. And I think you really do think you're going to find your brother—"

"I will," Sam says more determinedly than ever. "Dean has never let me down in my life, and I have _no_ intention of not returning the favor now.

"I'm sure you will. But right now you're about beat to hell. You can barely walk, your wrists all messed up, and from the sounds of it you've got some busted ribs, too. You need to get some rest or you're not going to be any good to your brother."

"Oh yeah? And what makes you the expert on what's wrong with me?" Sam demands. He turns angrily towards her and immediately regrets the move as his ribs scream in protest. He winces, but holds in the groan.

"The fact that I work in the ER as a nurse," she retorts. She slows the car down, eying him suspiciously in light of his reaction to the movement. Apparently he isn't as good at hiding his pain as he originally thought.

"You're a nurse?"

"That surprises you?"

Sam stutters. "Yeah. I mean no. No, it doesn't surprise me. It just…I guess I'm just surprised that you would help me after I checked out of the hospital AMA.

"I'm not on hospital grounds, Sam. I have no obligations to them out here. Besides, you have extenuating circumstances. I don't blame you, I just think you need to give your body a little bit of time to heal before you go trying to find your brother. It's not going to do him any good – you killing yourself before you find him."

"I'll be fine. I've been hurt worse than this and managed. He needs me."

Lori Ann takes her eyes off the road again, turning to soak up Sam's pleading expression. There's no doubt that she's about to give in and he turns up the puppy dog eyes just for added measure. She sighs, slaps the wheel and turns back to the road.

"Alright. Fine. So where can I take you?"

After taking a minute to think about it, Sam asks Lori Ann to take him back to the scene of the accident. He's hoping that he might find some clues there that might lead him to Dean, and a small part of him prays that the car might still be there as well. It hasn't escaped his thoughts that there are enough weapons and ammunition in their trunk to outfit a small army, and if the cops were to catch wind of that fact he could be in some serious trouble.

As he had expected, though, there's no sign of the car at the bottom of the ditch. The only indication that it had even once been there are the muddy tire tracks sliding all the way down the embankment and some broken bark where their car collided with the tree at the bottom. He reaches for the door handle, ready to ease himself from Lori Ann's van so he can have a look around when he realizes that Lori Ann is already standing on his side of the car with the door wide open.

The grim expression on her face is set as she extends her arm out to him. "You don't strike me as someone I can convince to stay put. But I'm not letting go of you, either. You shouldn't be up and walking around - especially on such uneven ground."

"I'm fine," Sam says levelly. "My brother doesn't have the time for me to heal. Trust me, this is nothing."

Lori Ann has the grace to keep her mouth shut, but she doesn't back down on her insistence to hold Sam up. He allows her to brace his elbow as they make their way to the steep embankment, secretly grateful for the additional assistance. He still isn't feeling all that steady on his feet, and the ground seems to be continuously weaving back and forth in his field of vision.

"What exactly are you looking for?" Lori Ann asks several minutes into the search when she finally realizes that Sam isn't going to volunteer anything.

"Clues," he replies absently, as he continues to stare hard at the ground.

She rolls her eyes, but tries again. "Yeah, I got that. What kind of clues?"

"Something to tell me what happened to my brother. Some hint of where I might look for him."

He presses on, slipping some as he makes his way down the hill and Lori Ann barely manages to keep herself from sliding too, as she struggles to hold Sam up and brace the two of them. Just a few feet further away, Sam sees something he thinks may finally be his break and he tears himself from Lori Ann's grip to lower himself to the ground. His hands reach out to brace himself as the quick release from her hold makes him stumble and sway, and realize that she had more of his weight than he'd realized. He stabilizes himself and leans in closer to the object on the ground, certain now that he has found a lead.

Dean is alone once again when he reawakens, and he's not sure if it's been ten minutes or ten hours since he was last awake, but he knows something has changed even before he opens his eyes. He's right, of course, but he's not entirely sure what the purpose of it is. Now, he's lying on his side, arms and legs propped up by pillows, yet he only knows this fact because the mirror has been moved so that it is still in his direct line of vision. His head continues to scream as the screws now pull from the left side. The sheet is still draped only over his hips and pubic area, and he wonders why he isn't wearing any clothes, and then laughs at that thought because it's such a small and insignificant concern in the grand scheme of things.

Before, he hadn't really given much thought to the significance of his plight. With the voice echoing all around him, his only real thoughts had been to feel out the situation, test the waters, and figure out a way out of this. But now...as he lies here in front of the mirror, alone, in silence, this is all he can concentrate on and a million thoughts fill his mind in a matter of seconds.

_Why me? Why am I here? What has he done to me? What does he want with me? Is there a link between this and all those disappearances? Why can't I move? _And then the clincher, that he dwells on far longer than the others. _Oh, god, what if he's actually paralyzed me? What if this is permanent?_

Because, of every fear and question he can come up with, this is the only one that full on terrifies him. He knows about paralysis, not a lot, but enough to know there's no cure for it. Knows that nine times out of ten someone who is paralyzed stays paralyzed, and he can't even fathom his life if he has to stay like this. He thinks he'd rather die.

Several minutes go by as he lies in the one position and stares, simply stares at his reflection in the mirror. There's a stalwart determination settled over his mind that maybe, if he focuses his effort hard enough and long enough, that he might actually manage to move something. Anything. Hell, at this point he'll take a pinky twitch. But nothing reacts to his efforts, and in the end he's mentally exhausted with nothing to show for it.

And then he realizes that he's missing a large chunk of time from his memory. He can't remember how he was captured or when or even what he was doing moments before. And he doesn't know how long he's been here; doesn't know how long he was unconscious before he came to the first time. The last thing he remembers is traveling down the road with Sam enroute to their next hunt. He was driving and Sam..._Sam!_

_Fuck, where is Sammy?_ Now he's adding guilt and self-recrimination into the mix because, shit, how long has he spent here in front of the mirror feeling sorry for himself while Sam is out god-knows-where and probably in trouble. And here he is, just lying here, completely useless.

He realizes at once that this man, this voice, whomever he is has done his homework on Dean Winchester. The man has picked the best possible way to torture his captive, because this is far worse than anything he's ever endured before. No bullet wound, no slash of a knife, no deep placed claw wounds could ever make him feel as helpless as he feels now. And he knows he would rather be thrown down a flight of stairs or have his heart ripped from his chest from the inside again before ever willingly submitting to this kind of torture. Because pain he can take, agony, even, is fine; but the absence of pain, the absence of anything, is by far the purest and worst form of torture Dean has ever experienced.

The door to the room opens as he lies there, and he knows the doctor - the zombon - has returned for him. A natural fear grips him for a second before he realizes that he's actually relieved to have her return. Her being there, despite being totally withdrawn from reality, means he is not totally and completely helpless. And maybe it also means he can get more answers. Maybe if she is returning, the voice will too, and even though he despises this voice with everything he has, he also knows that it's his only chance at making it out of here.

The zombon crosses the room to Dean's bedside and looks over head at his IV drip, checking to see how much is left before actually turning her attentions on him. She stares at him for a few seconds, and Dean is certain she's actually making eye contact with him, but then she turns away and proceeds with her caretaking as the voice returns to the loudspeaker.

"I see you've woken up, Dean," it blares loudly overhead. "That's good; you're just in time for the fun to start." Dean can almost picture the demonic glint in his captor's eye as he says this, and a shudder washes over Dean's numb body.

He hears that sucking whoosh yet again, and his brain goes into overdrive trying to figure out what the sound is. He's sure he has never heard it before, and that doesn't help him in his deductive reasoning. But that thought process is interrupted as he realizes that the zombon is removing the pillows from between his arms and legs. He watches her, terrified and questioning her next move as he wonders exactly what _fun_ this twisted voice has in mind. Wonders how he can stop the action even if he did know what was to come next.

"What the hell are you going to do to me?" Dean demands, practically spitting he's so furious at the invasion on his life.

The voice simply chuckles, low and clearly pleased with himself as he replies in a sing-song voice, "Only what you did to me, Dean. Only what you did to me."

_What the fuck is that supposed to mean?_ "I don't know who you are!" He screams. "How can I know what I supposedly did to you if I don't even know who I'm supposed to have done _it_ to?"

"Oh, you'll know in time."

This is really starting to get annoying, this constant assurance that Dean _will_ eventually know who he's dealing with, along with the still unanswered question of 'why.' The gears in his mind are now running on high speed as he desperately sifts through every enemy he's ever made through the years in search of someone that even slightly tips him off as being his captor. But if what the man says is true, that Dean is being forced to experience the same something that he put his captor through, then he is drawing a total blank.

His throat clenches when he realizes the zombon is bracing herself to lift him, just as he's seen Sam do on the rare occasion that he's been too injured to get up himself. He's helpless to resist as his arms are circled around her neck and she locks her hands behind his back. She lifts him with ease, and he closes his eyes to stop the tears that threaten to spill as his body flops back against the pillows as though he's nothing more than a rag doll. It is at that minute that the severity of his situation hits him.

Sam leans in closer, peering into the underbrush to get a better look. What he sees makes his stomach churn and his heart start pounding hard in his chest. "Oh, God, Dean," he whispers as he reaches beneath the tangle of weeds and carefully retrieves the hypodermic needle that has been carelessly tossed away there.

The needle portion itself is uncapped, and dangerously capable of pricking someone. The plunger has been pressed all the way down, but Sam can still make out just a hint of fluid left behind in the barrel. He wonders if there might be a way to analyze it, find out what is in the syringe. Clutching the object between his thumb and forefinger, he holds it up to Lori Ann.

"You think you might be able to figure out what's in here without arousing any suspicion at work?" He knows he is asking a lot of this stranger he has just met, but he's desperate at this point. Anything is worth the ask.

To his surprise, she nods almost immediately, without hesitation. "I can figure out a way. You think that's what they used on your brother?"

Sam shrugs, not really eager to admit it. "It's possible. Seems rather odd to find a hypo just laying out here in the middle of the brush for no reason, ya know?"

"I guess you're right," she agrees, eying the needle nervously. "What do you think is in there?"

Another non-committal shrug. "I can't really be sure. My brother's a strong guy, though. If they wanted to take him they would have to subdue him." Sam doesn't like the thought of that idea - Dean being totally helpless to fight back as they dragged him off to lord only knew where. And he finds himself wondering what kind of supernatural being needs drugs to subdue their victim, unless it has humans to do its bidding. That's frightening, because Dean's right; demons they get, people are crazy.

He shudders involuntarily as he struggles to stand back up, cautious of the needle between his fingers. Lori Ann finally reaches down to help him and, with her help, he manages to push through the wave of dizziness that envelopes his mind with the change in altitude.

She holds onto his arm as his eyes scan the rest of the area in search of more clues, but ten minutes later he is still left with just the one. His shoulders slump in defeat as he realizes that this syringe will likely only tell him what they injected Dean with, but won't give any information as to who took him or where. He'd hoped for a foot print or a scrap of clothing. Just once he would like a hand written note with specific coordinates, but knows that'll never happen in a million years. But the police and paramedics have been all over the ground, leaving behind their own sets of footprints and there's no possible way that Sam would be able to distinguish between their footprints and those of whoever took Dean even if he was sure there was a set of prints.

"I guess we should go," Sam finally announces, fighting the feeling of betrayal. He can't shake the sense that he's abandoning his brother. This is the last known location that Dean was at, and he doesn't want to leave in case there are more clues he's missing. But the rational side of him knows he's searched and found the only clue he's going to find, and he'll be of no use to Dean just standing there waiting

Lori Ann tightens her grip on Sam's elbow and starts to pull him slowly up the hill, feeling him beginning to drag more and more as the adrenaline of the search finally begins to wear off. She waits until they are in the car, with Sam securely seated in the passenger bucket seat before suggesting that they go find a place to rest for a while. "You look about ready to fall over," she observes gently.

Sam shakes his head, forcing his eyes to stay open as he stares her down, appreciative of her concern but really not needing a mother figure right about now. "I have to find my car," he insists. "There's stuff in there that I need."

"I really don't think that's a good idea," she presses. "What good are you doing to be to your brother if you collapse on the way to saving him?"

"Trust me," Sam insists weakly, wondering how many times he will have to reassure her before she gets the point. "I've been hurt worse than this and it didn't stop me then. A little dizziness won't slow me down. Really."

She looks at him skeptically, lip twitching as she makes her decision. "Do me at least one favor," she finally suggests. "At least close your eyes until we get to where your car is. Will you do that much for me?"

Sam nods slowly, eyes already at half mast. But snaps them back open the minute he hears the door slam. He's exceedingly grateful to Lori Ann's beneficence, but he can't keep from wondering what her motivation is. Most people don't go around helping perfect strangers on a search to find their obviously kidnaped brother. She has yet to bring up the cops. Come to think of it, she really hasn't asked any questions.

The thought unnerves him. She should be curious, suspicious even.

Slowly, Sam turns his head to watch as his own personal good Samaritan circles the car to the driver's side. He sees her cheeks puff out as she runs a nervous hand through her silky hair, and he can only imagine what she's thinking. Probably something along the lines of 'how do I get this lunatic out of my car?' or maybe 'What's the fastest way to the funny farm?'

"You're sure I can't convince you to take a little rest before doing this?" The woman asks one more time as she climbs into the vehicle. She seems to be displaying the conviction to see this through, to make sure Sam doesn't keel over on his quest, but it's clear that the nurse side of her wants nothing more than to put Sam to bed for a week.

"I'm sure," Sam says, eyes facing front as he leans his head against the headrest, biting his lip to keep the pain at bay.

She nods, hands gripping tight to the steering wheel, and pulls back onto the roadand heads toward town.

There are only three wreckage yards in the city and she tells Sam they would have had the car towed to one of them, seeing as how there really was no evidence of foul play. "Let's hope we find it at the first lot," she says, mouth pinched in a grim line. "Don't think you're really up to playing all around the mulberry bush in search of a car."

Sam offers a grateful smile her way, choosing to pick his battles. It is abundantly clear the woman thinks he should be in a hospital; if voicing her displeasure at helping him will make her feel better he'll take it right now. Just as long as she keeps driving toward the car.

Somewhere along the line Sam falls asleep, only to reawaken to Lori Ann shaking his shoulder as they pull up to the tall chain link gate that guards Speedy McClaren's auto salvage yard. He blinks his eyes groggily, trying to escape the draw of sleep that still holds him in its clutches.

"Is it here?" he asks, slightly disoriented, but knowledgeable enough to know they'd taken off in search of something.

"I'm not sure. You never told me what kind of car we were looking for."

Scanning the lot for himself, it takes Sam a while to answer. But he is soon grinning in relief as he spots the black beast at the beginning of a row of cars. "It's the Chevy Impala over there," he points, already climbing from the van.

Now that he is actually awake, he feels a little steadier on his feet after his brief napand he makes fast tracks to the single wide trailer that is situated in the center of the lot. Lori Ann jumps out to join him, sprinting across the gravel drive to catch up. Following at a close distance, and seemingly ready to resume her roll of support if Sam should happen to weaken again, she walks with him into the trailer.

A grease covered man in blue coveralls sits with his feet up on the desk watching daytime game shows. He glances up, disinterested, as Sam and Lori Ann enter the small room. "Whadayaneed?"

"I'm here to pick up my car," Sam announces, crossing the room to the man in two strides. "It's the black Chevy Impala you've got out there."

The man snorts, but his eyes never leave the television as he shouts out an answer to the Hollywood squares question just asked before announcing, "That car ain't going nowhere, kid. You seen the front grill?"

Sam shakes his head, feeling his chest clench grotesquely tight.

"It's all smashed in. Radiator's busted. Fan belt's split. Thing's totaled kid. You might as well just cut your losses."

Cringing at the damage, Sam becomes more insistent. "You don't understand. That's my brother's car; he's not gonna just give up on it. Can it be fixed?"

Again, the man laughs heartily, amused at what he construes to be a big joke on Sam's part. He shrugs. "S'pose it could. Don't really see why you'd want to, though. You'll be putting more money into it than the thing's worth."

"It's worth more than just its cash value," Sam insists, truly missing Dean right now. Dean would know what to do, would know how to fix it and if it can be fixed. For the briefest of seconds he wonders if it's a waste of time trying to salvage the car, because if he can't find Dean then there's no point. And then he hates himself triple time for even thinking such a horrible thought. Of course he'll find Dean. He has to.

"I have to get some stuff out of the trunk," he finally announces. "But then I want the car fixed. The cost isn't an issue."

The guy nods his annoyed acceptance and has Sam fill out some papers before sending them back out into the lot so he can continue with his all too enthralling television. Sam's grateful that he doesn't come with, but still nervous about revealing the weapons cache to Lori Ann. For a minute, he ponders whether or not he might be able to distract her while he collects what he needs, but knows she isn't straying far from his side as long as he's still swaying on his feet. He does damage control instead.

"So, um, Lori Ann—" You should know something," he stalls, his hand toying with the trunk, smearing marks in the dust.

She cocks her head, curious to why he's gotten so nervous all of a sudden.

"My brother and I, we--" We sorta investigate stuff like this - like these disappearances - as a job." He pauses, gauging her reaction. She seems intrigued, and maybe a little perplexed, but open to the idea. "And so, we've got a lot of – um –weapons for stuff like this. I just - I don't want you to be scared when I open the trunk."

Her lip curls up into something of a smile, as though she's waiting for the punchline. But Sam's unyielding expression quickly makes her reevaluate that idea and her smile flattens. "You're serious. You seriously have a trunk full of weapons. Like, not just a gun - singular, but like, many guns."

Sam nods. "And knives, and some plastique, and a whole bunch of other stuff that you wouldn't even begin to be able to identify. And I have to bring the majority of it with us, because I really don't know what we're dealing with here."

Eyes growing large, Lori Ann gulps, but she allows her gaze to travel to the trunk. "I don't know what you even think we're dealing with, but I trust you. Whatever you need."

The trunk is opened slowly and Sam keeps his attention divided between stuffing what he needs in a duffle bag and watching Lori Ann for any sign she might run. He's suddenly uneasy - she accepted the weapons far too easily, far too calmly - and he's not sure what that means for any future reactions. But she makes it through the collection without hesitation and follows readily back to her car after Sam slings the duffle over his shoulder and grabs the one with his clothes in the other hand.

And she never says another word about the weapons, instead busying herself with pushing her ministrations on Sam, who she can tell is only still standing by sheer force of will. "I think we need to pick up something to eat and get you some real rest. I have a guest bedroom you can -"

"I'll just stay at a motel," Sam jumps in. "You've done enough, really. But I don't want to put you out."

"It's really no trouble," Lori Ann insists. But Sam is stubborn, and she finally relents. They go through a drive through and get hamburgers and fries and then she takes him to the nearest motel. She will see about the contents of the syringe while he lies down for some sleep. It's all she could do to convince him to actually get the rest, finally reminding him that she'll be returning to the same hospital he ran out of a few hours before, and maybe it's not the smartest idea for him to join her.

"You'll do your brother no good if you can't stand on your own," she finally says, and that works. Sam grudgingly lies down on the bed nearest the door, the closest thing he has right now to feeling close to Dean, because that would normally be Dean's bed. His eyes close almost immediately, and Lori Ann lets herself out of the room silently.

As though just knowing he can't readjust himself in the bed isn't bad enough, Dean soon learns that that is just the beginning of the 'fun' the voice had alluded to. In a split second he's submerged into a pool of depression, and he can't believe just how quickly this situation went from bad to devastating.

She makes sure the mirror is directly within his line of sight as she begins her ministrations, and Dean has two choices: close his eyes to everything that is going on, close his eyes to what they are doing to his own body; or, he can watch. He doesn't want to watch. Every fiber in his body is screaming at him to shut his eyes to the sight, knowing that if he doesn't watch he won't be able to feel either and he just might be able to pretend that nothing at all is going on. But he knows that can never be the case, and for the same reasons that he can't watch he knows he has to. If he doesn't see, he doesn't know, and he can't take a chance at them doing something to him that can't be reversed.

The zombon starts with a simple sponge bath - and that really wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't for the fact that he can't feel what she's doing and that she is completely devoid of emotion. But the sponge bath evolves into a changing and cleansing of the tubes in his body - tubes he hadn't realized were even there until she pulls the sheet from his hips and completely exposes him.

Dean has seen a catheter before, and though he has never enjoyed having them shoved up his dick before, none of those times has ever been as degrading and humiliating as this time. Because the voice decides now is a great time to add its two cents once again.

"You're looking a little flaccid there, Dean," it chuckles. "What's a matter? Not turned on by the charms of a beautiful woman any more?"

"I'm gonna fucking kill you, you bastard," Dean screams, chokes, cries. In his mind, he imagines himself pouncing on the source of the voice and punching him until every vessel in his face bleeds and then strangling him until the life pours out of him.

But in reality, Dean can't even move his fingers and the zombon doctor is currently holding his limp dick in her hands inserting a new tube up through it so he can pee into a bag like a good little cripple.

After another sucking whoosh, the voice resumes its laughter. Louder this time, and clearly lacking even a hint of fear. "I'm sure you will," it mocks heartily. "I'll be here waiting for you to get up and find me."

"Oh, you can bet I will," Dean growls. His voice cracks, and he hates himself for losing it so quickly, hates himself for being so weak.

There is silence for a few seconds, and his gaze reverts back to the zombon's actions as she covers him back up with the sheet and raises the head of the bed so he can sit up.

From somewhere behind him, she retrieves a tray with food on it, and pulls a stool up beside him as she uncovers the dishes. He is presented with a tray filled with several options, all the consistency of baby food.

She offers him a spoonful of oatmeal first, shoving it into his less than willing mouth and allowing a clump to spill down his chin. She shovels two more bites of oatmeal into his mouth before finally scraping the spilled goo from Dean's chin and offering him that as a fourth bite. This ritual goes on for the next twenty minutes; shove in a spoonful and spill half of it, scoop up the spill and shove that in too.

And then she finalizes the feeding by wiping off his face with a warm washcloth. Dean feels about two months old.

"How are you feeling now?" the voice returns. "Are you having fun yet?"

Dean wishes he has someplace, someone, to glare at, because no words can truly reflect what he's feeling right now. Hatred - pure and carnal and unadulterated hatred, and he vows to himself that someday he's going to come face to face with this man and kick his demented ass.

"Ah, Dean, wipe that scowl off your face. We've only just begun."

Once again, the zombon steps to him and arranges his arms around her neck and turns him to the opposite side he had woken up on. For a minute he is left staring at the wall with no means of knowing what is happening.

The voice makes sure that doesn't last for long. "Darling," it coos to its creation. "Don't forget to give our guest his mirror. We wouldn't want him to miss this, now would we?"

Scraping sounds from behind him, and soon Dean is once again facing into the mirror as he watches the zombon retrieve something from her cache of medical aides and circle around behind him. His eyes widen to the size of saucers in understanding.

"You don't know what that is do you?" the voice asks.

He doesn't wait for an answer before giving one of his own. "That, my friend, is what we in the medical world like to call a suppository. Do you know what it does?"

Dean screams, now, fully prepared to jump from the table if he can somehow figure out a way to regain use of his limbs. "Why are you doing this to me you sick fuck?!"

He can feel the blood rushing to his face and expects the fury and anger in his voice to evoke pause in the zombon's actions. But she barely flinches as she shoves the suppository up his ass and slides a plastic lined pad under his hip, crossing her arms as she waits for the capsule to do its job.

"We have already covered that," the voice replies evenly. "You know why I'm doing this. I'm just making you see what your actions can lead to."

A single tear slips down from Dean's moistening eyes leaving behind a wet circle of moisture as it hits the pillow and soaks in, and he scrunches his face up tight, squeezing his eyes closed as he desperately tries to stop the flow of the rest.

He hates this; hates feeling so helpless, hates having his body exposed and toyed with by a stranger, and absolutely despises the fact that his captor has managed to so easily and quickly break through the wall he's worked so hard and long to build.

Whatever his captor has intended he's achieved it tenfold. In the short time Dean has been here he's been raped and violated in a way that only medical professionals would construe as care-giving, and by the end he is unable to withhold a single tear from escaping.

He vows revenge.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Thanks again for reading. I know it's darker and more creepy than my normal work. I appreciate all who are managing to stomach this! And remember, reviews are the only thing that feeds the muse. Thanks tons..._**

Sam is fast asleep at seven the next morning, finally having succumbed to unconsciousness two hours earlier, when Lori Ann starts pounding on the door of his motel room. He wipes a hand groggily across his eyes as he drags himself painfully from the bed. Feeling a bit embarrassed, he pulls a t-shirt on over his bruised, muscular chest so he isn't just in his boxer briefs when he wrenches open the door. Lori Ann is mid knock and barely manages to draw her hand back and keep from pounding her fist against Sam's forehead, but he hardly notices this as he ushers her inside.

"What did you find out?" he demands. There is no time for formalities.

Lori Ann seems to recognize this and she doesn't waste time filling him in. "It's a neuromuscular blocking drug used in surgeries. He would have been completely paralyzed less than ninety seconds after injection." She sounds apologetic, no doubt considering what Sam had said about how strong his brother was and how much it would have taken to subdue him.

"He had no way to protect himself," Sam says distantly, realizing just how horrible a way that must have been for Dean to be taken. "And I was just passed out to the world. I could have helped him."

"There was nothing you could have done," Lori Ann assures Sam. "It was a car accident. It's not like you tried to knock yourself out."

"You don't understand," Sam argues, abruptly crossing the room to where his duffel bag is and begins grabbing clothing from it. "My brother and I - we look out for each other. We're all each other has. I should have _been _there for him." He jerks a shirt on over the t-shirt he's already wearing and pulls a pair of jeans over his boxers, not really caring about whether what he's wearing is clean or not. He's been sitting on his ass for far too long.

"We've got to find him," Sam insists. "Please, think about this. You work in the hospital. What do you know about those other missing persons? Is there anything you can tell me? Anything at all?" Desperation infiltrates his voice and his expression and Lori Ann wilts at that.

She really seems to give it some thought, quietly muttering to herself as she recounts what she's heard when each of the three employees went missing. But the majority of what she knows is just heresay, she admits to Sam with eyes downcast. "I'm sorry Sam, really all I know is what's been in the news. Two nurses and a doctor, all female, all from the neuro- wing. I don't work up there, so I didn't know any of them well; just in passing, really."

Sam's ears perk up. "You said they're all from neurology. And that drug Dean was injected with is some neuromuscular drug. That could be a link," he says hopefully.

Lori Ann nods hesitantly, but she doesn't seem all that set on the possibility. "It's used in just about any surgery they do in the hospital. At least the long ones - it's a long acting drug. So it doesn't necessarily mean anything. I'm sorry, Sam."

"How about finger prints?" he asks, sliding in front of his laptop for a little more research based on what he's been told so far. It isn't much, but it's more than he had last night when he was doing research and it's worth another look before he starts driving aimlessly through the town in search of leads.

Shaking her head, Lori Ann perches on the bed, peering over Sam's shoulder to see what he's searching for. "I'm sorry Sam, our lab isn't equipped for forensics. They didn't even think to look for fingerprints...and to be honest with you, neither did I."

"Shit." Sam pounds his fist on the wooden desktop in frustration. "I should have said something to you earlier. I should have told you to get fingerprints." _Damn it, Sam, get your head in the game. Dean needs you!_

Fingers flying over the keyboard, Sam pops in every key word he can think of to link supernatural elements with drugs and even goes so far as to escape from the supernatural and assume maybe it's just a person doing all this. Maybe this isn't their kind of hunt at all, and he and Dean just walked needlessly into the mix. Maybe Dean didn't have to be taken. But his search comes up empty with everything he can think to cross link, and forty-five minutes later he feels more desperate and empty than ever.

"We'll find him," Lori Ann whispers, squeezing Sam's shoulder tightly. "We'll figure something out. You'll see your brother again."

Slamming the computer shut, Sam rises again. He's already forgotten about his own injuries, although his body hasn't, and he winces noticeably with the hurried motions. Lori Ann is at his side in an instant.

"You're still not healed," she berates gently, trying to get him to slow down. "Please, Sam, just take it easy."

Sam twists his arm out from her grip, flailing it wildly behind him. "Don't tell me to take it easy!" he shouts. "My brother is out there! Some sicko has him somewhere and I can't take it easy until I find him and get him back. My pain doesn't matter right now!"

Lori Ann flinches and backs off. "I'm sorry, Sam. I can't imagine what you're–"

"I don't need you to!" he interrupts. "And I don't want you to. I just want you to back off. I appreciate your help and all, but if all you're gonna be doing is telling me to slow down then you can just leave."

Gulping, she nods her acceptance to the terms. "I'll back off," Lori Ann assures Sam. "But I still want to help."

"Fine. Let's go then." Sam grabs his gear from the floor, slinging the bag over his shoulder and ignoring his protesting ribs as he storms out the door.

"Where are we going?" Lori Ann calls out, rushing after him to her car.

"The police station. I need to see their reports."

* * *

There's plenty of time to think about his revenge as Dean really has nothing to do _but_ think at this point. He comes up with all sorts of cruel, evil, vicious ideas that he can use to carry out his retaliation on his captor when they finally come face to face. But he always returns to the same question, over and over again. _Will I ever be able to move again to exact my revenge?_

But no matter how much he wishes otherwise, he just doesn't know the answer. Because he has yet to get a straight answer out of the man about what he's done to Dean and how. Without being able to feel anything, Dean doesn't know if his spinal cord has been sliced in half or if the man is just somehow messing with his mind. Right now, though, it really doesn't matter because either way he can't move a fucking thing and he has no idea how, or even if, he ever will again.

He thinks the suppository up his ass is by far the cruelest thing the man could have come up with, because what could possibly be worse than having some chick stick a capsule up there and then stand and watch as it makes you take a shit. He'd heard it and smelled it, but couldn't feel it, and the longer it went on the hotter his face became and the more his tears streamed. And the icing on the cake had been when she then cleaned him up, wiping every last bit of excrement from his numb ass before turning him onto his back again and leaving him alone in the room with his thoughts.

But along with the thoughts of the last several hours? days? comes a new realization; one he isn't sure whether or not he's only now noticing because it's just started happening, or if he's just been too engrossed in other things to notice before now. As he lays there, he starts to notice he isn't breathing as well as he would like. Pulling air in is a challenge he's not used to facing, not used to being so difficult, and he realizes each intake is accompanied by a slight wheeze. He wonders just how tight his chest really is, how sore his lungs must be, but of course he can't actually feel that because it's below his line of sensation.

It isn't long after this realization that the intercom springs to life once again and his eyes instinctively flit around their range of sight, still searching for a source. "How are you doing after your morning routine?"

Dean bites back a 'fuck you' this time, afraid to anger the man before he gets some answers. "How long have I been here?" he demands breathlessly. Nope, the breathing thing must have just started. He knows his words held more power before this.

For once, he receives what sounds like an honest reply. "Counting the time you were asleep, two days."

_Two days. _Two days of this shit and he already feels like he's about to go completely and utterly insane. He knows he'll never survive a lifetime of this, and not for the first time, finds himself praying the paralysis isn't permanent. He pushes himself to remain rational. He has to keep himself sane, if for no other reason than to piss this guy off royally. "Am I...paralyzed?" he demands to know.

The voice laughs, humorless. "What do you think, Dean? You're the one lying there in the bed. Can you move?"

_Fuck you! God damn it, FUCK YOU!_ Dean bites down hard on his tongue, forcibly reminding himself that all he has is his mind right now. He has to know. "I mean permanently," he clarifies. "Have you...done something to me?" Damn his lungs. Why can't he catch his breath anymore? What the hell?

"Ahhh, the million dollar question. Is it permanent? Will I ever walk again? Will I ever feel again? What every quadriplegic wants to know and every doctor doesn't want to answer. I think we'll wait on that one for a while."

Dean squeezes his eyes shut once more, pushing more tears from invading the calm facade he's managed to create. It's impossible to channel the energy and the need for a fight into matching the voice head on in these mind games. He was never the brain - that was Sammy's area. If all he's ever going to have again is his brain he doesn't think he's going to make it very far.

"What do you–" he gasps, "plan to do – to me?" he asks, trying to ignore the fact that his last question remains unanswered. Breathing is getting harder, and he wonders if maybe he should say something to his captor, wonders if maybe he would send the zombon in to perform some more procedures on him, decides he really doesn't want to risk what could come next.

"I'm doing it already," the voice announces, pleased with itself. "This is my plan. And if I'm not mistaken, I'd say the next part will fall into place very soon. How's your breathing, Dean?"

Dean's eyes widen, although he really shouldn't be as shocked as he is. Of course the man had something to do with his breathing problems. "What's happening to me?" he demands, struggling harder to gain a complete breath.

"Exactly what you think, Dean. Although, most people who wake up like this already can't breathe on their own. I figured you would appreciate the luxury of knowing you're losing your lung power. It seemed more...suitable." Another sucking whoosh. "Now tell me, Dean, how difficult is that breathing of yours?"

"Fuck you!" Dean finally spits out, unable to hold back his anger any longer. In his mind, he's jumping from the table and lunging at the source of the voice, at this point a still faceless, forceless outline. It's getting more and more infuriating trying to get used to this new prone position, and now he has to add his breathing troubles to the list. He sucks in a deep breath, trying to compensate for the suffocating feeling he's experiencing and ends up no better off than he was before he took the breath.

"No," the voice replies jovially. "I'm not the one who's fucked right now. I think that would be you. But I can help you if you ask nicely."

Dean refuses to beg, and the daggers shooting from his eyes announce that better than anything he could have said. Not that he really has that choice anymore. There is no longer any power to his voice, nothing to back up the anger and hatred coursing through his veins, and it's really all he can do to keep a steady stream of air flowing into his lungs to worry about talking to the man anymore.

The door creaks open behind his head, and Dean knows the zombon is now entering the room. He feels a sense of relief, knowing, believing, that it has been sent in to help him with his breathing. For a few seconds he actually believes that he feels his breathing getting better, evening out, but the sensation is fleeting and soon he's back to gasping for air.

"Say please," the voice sings out, taunting him evilly. "Just say please for me, Dean, and all your troubles will go away."

"I'm fine," Dean grits out. Gasping in another gulp of stagnant cellar air, he bites his lip hard, knowing it's turning blue even though he can't see it. Hell will freeze over before he asks politely for anything from this mother fucker. He can be strong. He can fight the pull of oxygen leaving his body and refusing to return.

And then hell freezes over. Because a switch flips in Dean's brain and he realizes he's going to die if he doesn't get help soon.

He's okay with dying, especially in his current state. But he doesn't know where Sam is, or what condition he's in, and Dean knows he can't die not knowing if Sam is alive or dead. _As long as there's breath in my body I will protect you, Sammy_, he had assured his brother when the threat of the yellow eyed demon seemed at its worst. And that promise extended beyond the threats of just that demon - that promise covered every possible threat his brother could possibly encounter.

So Dean has to live. For Sammy. And if living means begging for his life then he will close his eyes and plead, and just hope it doesn't come back to bite him in the ass.

Closing his eyes, he lets one tear squeeze through; because if he's going to be weak and give in to the man's powers he might as well give it his all, right? "Please help me," Dean finally gasps out when he fears he might not have another breath left in his body. Somehow he manages to take in another and another, albeit very short breath, but he knows the end is near.

"As you wish," the voice agrees, pleased with itself for eliciting a plea from the great Dean Winchester himself. And damn it, there's that sucking whoosh sound again. What the hell is that?

Dean opens his eyes again, still struggling for breath, but now assured that he'll breath again very soon. But soon, he immediately finds out, isn't all that it's cracked up to be, and he really isn't sure what to make of the solution the voice has come up with, but he knows it's totally fucked up on so many levels just as well as he knows he has no chance of getting away.

"Nooo!" he forces out in a harsh whisper, using the last of the little bit of air he has left, and the zombon halts in mid air, holding the scalpel just above his throat.

* * *

Sam has to laugh as Lori Ann's eyes widen when he pulls out the cache of fake badges and ID's, selecting an appropriate one and popping it in his breast pocket. But he has to give her credit for not saying anything about it. She could just as easily hightail it into the police station and turn him in as a lunatic escaped from the funny farm. But instead, she squares her shoulders, stands up taller, and follows Sam into the police station as though she's been lying to the cops her entire life.

Flashing his PI's badge quickly, so the desk clerk can only make out the general outline without time for scrutiny, he tells the clerk that he's been hired by one of the families of the kidnapped victims and that he would like to see everything they have on the case. The clerk, who looks barely out of diapers, eyes Sam curiously, cautiously, for several seconds before picking up the phone to call someone to take them back to the evidence room.

Sam really can't help but roll his eyes as he follows the second officer down the hallway to where they have all the information laid out for the case. _Stupid podunk cops. Don't have to show a PI squat if you don't want to._ But entering the station he had known that a PI would get a better response than FBI or a cop from some neighboring town. PI's were less threatening, and there wasn't anything small town cops hated more than to feel as though their territory was being overrun by the higher-ups.

Flipping through the information, Sam soaks up everything he can, making notes where he feels appropriate. The officers have narrowed the location of the kidnapper down to only one quadrant of the town, which helps immensely, but not enough to leave Sam feeling really confident that he will find Dean any faster. There have been no ransom demands and the police are beginning to think less and less that they will bring the three women back alive. Which, of course, makes Sam wonder if he will be bringing Dean back alive either.

But a part of him doesn't understand what the point is of staging an accident, drugging his brother, and dragging him off to wherever if the culprit didn't want him for some reason. And he really, honestly, truly believes that this is supernatural in its roots, which means the victims are probably either possessed right now or ritual sacrifices. Either way, he thinks he still might have a chance. He hopes he still has a chance.

"I need a map of the city," Sam announces when he's done looking at the information the cops have gathered, limited as it may be. It needs to have buildings on it, in addition to everything else. I need to know what's around in the area they think this guy is hiding out."

The cop assisting him rises quickly, eager to help. Sam can tell the man is hoping Sam might figure something out and inadvertently divulge his suspicions. Clearly, the man is hoping to be able to pass off the 'big break' as his own and get the credit for it. Of course, Sam is more than willing to let him take the credit, but not until after Dean is safely removed from danger. Then he will all too willingly place an anonymous phone call specifically to Ranger Rick over here in the station telling him where to look for the culprit. That is, of course, if there's anyone left to find.

Sam scans the map carefully, taking note of every house, office building, warehouse, any place that can potentially be housing their suspect. He pretty much rejects the idea that he/she/it is hiding in any of the active commercial sites, and the majority of the residential areas seem just too closely grouped together to house any type of dangerous kidnapper, supernatural or otherwise. Which just leaves the abandoned buildings in the area. There are seven of them that Sam can count, and with an average of half an hour at the minimum to cover each building and drive to the next one Sam realizes he needs to get a move on. The longer he waits, the less chance he has to get Dean out alive.

"All right," Sam says, standing up and motioning Lori Ann to follow. He looks to the cop with a grim smile. "Thanks so much for your help. I'll be in touch if I find anything."

"Glad I could help," the man says, shaking Sam's hand as he leads them back out into the main lobby. "And we'd appreciate anything you can do in return. Good luck with your search."

"Thanks."

Lori Ann waits just long enough for the two of them to climb into the car before asking, "So where are we going? Any thoughts?"

Sam nods and directs her to the first of the seven buildings. There's nothing that specifically stands out about any one of them, so his only plan is to start at the beginning and work his way back in a direct route. The less ground they have to cover from building to building the better.

* * *

Dean swallows convulsively, trying to subdue the panic that's consuming him, trying to force his fast failing lungs to draw in a breath. He knows this isn't right. Knows that it doesn't take a scalpel to help him to breathe. That's just totally screwed up. All he needs is one of those little rubber tubing things shoved up his nose, or a face mask. He can breathe with just a little bit of assistance. He doesn't need anything drastic. He's sure of that.

"Dean," the voice reprimands. "She can't help you breathe if you resist her. Do you want to suffocate?"

_No, fuck you very much. But what the hell does she think she's doing?_ His eyes grow wet with tears as he continues to understand just how screwed he really is. He can't do anything; has no way of defending himself; and there's some possessed zombie chick standing over his neck with a scalpel. Just how much worse can this get?

"Dean, do you want her to help you breathe?" the voice repeats, firmer this time and leaving no room for argument. "You have to the count of ten to make your decision. You let her help, or you suffocate. One..."

_Shit. Shit. Shit. What the hell am I supposed to do?_ "What's she – gonna –" he stops to wheeze, taking in several ragged breaths before he forces himself to continue, "do to – me?"

"She's going to help you breathe, Dean," is the answer. _And thank you Sherlock Holmes for clearing that right up for me. "_Three...Four...what's it going to be Dean? ...six..."

He realizes he's going to die if he doesn't do something. _Damned if I do. Damned if I don't. _It's the proverbial rock and a hard place, and Dean finally accepts that there really is only one option. The known is that he's slowly suffocating to death and if he continues to go at this pace he won't live long enough to know what the hell this whole situation is all about. The unknown is what's going to happen with that scalpel the zombon is holding. There's no way to know if the outcome will be good or not. But it's a chance he has to take. He has no other choice.

"...nine...De-an..."

"Do it," he rasps, gasping for air now.

He has nothing left with which to speak and he leaves it at that as he watches the knife begin to lower again toward his throat. But this still isn't right. There should be sedatives and anesthetics. He shouldn't be awake for this – this _surgery_. And yet he is...very much awake. And if he could have, he would have cried out in pain as the zombon makes her incision into his throat. The pain is unbearable; a combination of a choking sensation and a stab. He wants to gag. Wants nothing more than to throw up. But he doesn't dare for fear his captor may just have him left on his back as he is and he could aspirate back into his own lungs.

He feels the sensation of warm blood trickling down his throat and then feels the zombon wipe it away with a cloth before reaching for a plastic tube like thing and shoves it into the hole in his windpipe. Tears come to his eyes in an unbidden outpouring of pain and fear and anger, and he wants to squeeze them shut to stop the wetness from getting through, but doesn't trust himself not to watch. He can't see much, but he doesn't want to miss anything he can. It's his only chance at getting out of here.

Another tube, this one longer and more pliable, is threaded through the first tube and he can feel it for as far as his neck touches his shoulders, but from there he has no idea just how far it goes into his esophagus, or even if it does go any farther. But right now none of that matters, because he still can't breath and his brain is starting to get all foggy and his vision is spotty and he thinks that if something isn't done soon to help his breathing, consenting to all this may have been in vain.

"You're doing fine, Dean. Just fine." For once the voice comes off as compassionate, but Dean knows even that is simply fine-tuned mocking at its best. He would glare at the man if he wasn't about to pass out from oxygen deprivation. But for now he'll just have to settle for thinking hateful thoughts.

Dean doesn't know how long it is before he feels the precious sensation of air filling his lungs again. He knows he passed out at some point because when he opens his eyes again things are not as he remembers them to be. The zombon is gone once again and he's back on his side with the mirror set up in front of him so he can see just what was done to provide him with air. He's disgusted and terrified and furious at the sight in front of him, completely unsure which emotion is best to deal with first.

A tube has actually been placed inside his throat, just below his adams apple, to help him breath. It's held in place by a thin strip of what looks like felt and velcro, wrapped all the way around his neck, and the white tube inside is attached to the familiar blue accordion tubing of a ventilator. He's knows ventilators. He's been on one twice before in his life. Sam, once. But never like this. Never with the tube actually sliced into the base of his throat. And never did it hurt so much to be on one. God it hurts, where the tube is holding the incision open. Every move he takes, every convulsion of his throat, not that he has much opportunity _to_ move, but somehow he's managing to find a way.

In the past, he's woken up fighting the ventilators as his own strengthening lungs vied for their own time to breathe as the machines still insisted on pushing their own source of air into the lungs. He hated that sensation and the feel of the tube jammed down his throat and the scratchiness it left behind once it was removed. Never did he believe he would actually miss those sensations, but this new form of ventilation is making those feelings a reality. And it scares him that he _isn't _fighting the machine right now. He's helpless to do anything more than lie there and allow the machine to inflate and deflate his lungs in it's all too steady motion.

He blinks. Once. Twice. Three times. Trying to make the image change. Wishing that somehow this is all a horrible, twisted, fucked up nightmare and any minute now Sam will be shaking him awake with those worried puppy dog eyes he's so good at conjuring up, and going all emo on him as he begs Dean to open up and share his feelings. And maybe this time he will, because he knows he'll be damn happy to be awake again after this hell of a nightmare. Maybe he'll even swear off the tequila, because heaven knows that stuff will give you some crazy ass nightmares, and that must be what's causing this.

But it doesn't matter how many times he blinks and tries to rid himself of the vision in front of him because this is real, and it's not going away, and he still has no clue where the hell Sam is or if he's looking for him or if he's even okay. He tries not to think about the possibility that Sam is going through the same torturous hell that he is, because that would just be unbearable.

He doesn't like being helpless, more like despises it with every last fiber of his being, but knowing Sammy is dealing with this and he's incapable of stopping it is more than he can handle right now on the limited supply of nerves that he's got left. So he pushes it to the farthest regions of his mind and convinces himself that Sam is fine. His captor had promised that he would know when Sam was here, and somehow he believes the man.

It's a split instant when his hearing comes back to him, or at least when he registers what he's hearing because he really doesn't think he had ever actually lost his hearing in the first place. But suddenly he finds himself surrounded in sounds.

They have a heart monitor on him now, and he focuses in on the small round electrodes pressed against his tanned chest and the steady beeping as the machine registers his heart beat. And he hears the ventilator whooshing. That sucking whoosh that he's been hearing over the intercom ever since he woke up in this god-forsaken place. Realizes that he _did_ know that sound; _had_ heard it before. He just hadn't really put two and two together, because how could he possibly have been captured by the man if...

Suddenly he realizes that he now knows something about his captor, realizes that his captor is playing out his own shortcomings on Dean. He doesn't know what this new realization means for himself, but it's something. Something to latch onto.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Gotta say thanks, once again, for the encouraging reviews and wonderful comments. I love you all. Enjoy..._**

It takes getting past the initial shock and fear of the trach tube in his throat to realize that he can no longer talk with it in. That really shouldn't surprise him, he knows; it's not as though he was ever able to speak around the tubes when they were threaded down his throat, so sticking them directly inside, through his neck, should be no different. But no matter the reasoning behind why he _can't_ speak, Dean finds that having this one final ability taken away from him really, truly, royally pisses him off. Now he is officially lost in his own mind with no possible way of expressing anything. Facial expressions can only get him so far, and he still has so many questions he wants answered. No; forget wants, he _demands_ to have them answered.

_You can't just do this to me without explanation,_ he thinks miserably, aiming a sour look to the mirror because that's the direction he's facing right now. _There's got to be a reason for this. Think, Dean. Damn it, just think!_ With nothing better to do with his time, Dean starts from the beginning, from waking up in this hell hole, and tries to piece together what the fuck has happened to him.

He knows without a doubt that this is some sort of revenge thing, the voice over the intercom as much as admitted that the first day. And from his most recent revelation, he determines that his captor very likely is permanently in the same boat as Dean currently finds himself in - paralyzed, unable to feel or to move, unable to breathe. For a split second he allows himself to feel sorry for the guy, wondering what it must be like to face this as a permanent reality. Day after day.

But he forces himself to push that out of his thoughts when he, once again, realizes that he still doesn't know the fate of his own future. And if this _is_ permanent for him then he hates this guy that much more. _What kind of a sick fuck would purposely inflict this kind of pain on others knowing full well what it's like?_

Of one thing Dean is certain, and that is the fact that whoever his captor is must be human, because anything supernatural would have the ability to heal from an injury like this and therefore couldn't possibly be seeking retribution for causing such a thing. But that brings about a whole new set of problems and questions because he can't, for the life of him, remember any human's he's encountered that he caused harm to. Unless of course you counted the Benders, but they're all dead - all except for the daughter - and this voice is very clearly a man's voice. And the dialect is all wrong.

Every human he can think of that he's encountered has been grateful for being saved. He's never gone up against any of the victims, never done much beyond untying them from a pole or patching up a few scratches. And no bar fight has even gone far enough to result in that type of injury. A concussion and one hell of a headache, sure, but never a spinal injury. He's just not that kind of a guy; he's always held back.

_So who the hell is doing this to me? And why?_ He gets a flash of memory returning to him from the road trip into town - or at least he assumes he's in the same town. He knows his breathing would quicken at the onset of this memory if he had any control over his breathing. But instead, he's left to just gauge the sensation in his mind as suddenly he remembers seeing the woman in the middle of the road and the wheels slipping on the rain slicked blacktop. He remembers careening down the side of the hill, trying to stop the car, and finally putting his arms up to shield his face as they hit the tree.

Looking into the mirror once more, he now sees the faint outline of bruises on his forearms from where they slammed into the steering wheel on impact. He hadn't noticed them before now, but reminds himself that he did have more important things to be worried about when he woke up the captive of some crazed lunatic.

Suddenly, as though it's happening all over again, he feels the prick of a needle in his neck. It's the first time he remembers that happening, the needle just after the crash.

_He hadn't lost consciousness when they hit, and he remembers his arms screaming out in pain as he looks over to Sam. Sam did get knocked out, and Dean is just reaching over to try to wake him up when he feels the prick of the needle piercing his skin_._ He immediately draws his hand up to his neck as he spins his head around to come face to face with the same girl who had, just seconds earlier, been standing in the middle of the road. She grins maniacally at him, tossing the syringe off into the underbrush as he reaches for the door handle. Suddenly his hands are more sluggish than usual and he finds he has to try three times before he is able to get a purchase on the metal. _

_Finally getting the door open, Dean tries to stand, but his legs won't hold, and he ends up falling face first onto the ground as the woman steps back out of his way. He claws his way towards her as the drugs course through his body, slowing his momentum more and more until he can no longer move at all. It's only then that the woman steps back into his line of sight, locking her arms under his armpits and hugging him to her chest as she begins the arduous_ _task of dragging him back up the hillside. His neck is now too weak to support his head and the heavy burden lolls to the side, chin to chest. The only sensation he has anymore is the sound of the quickened breathing of his captor and the sight of the car becoming farther and farther away as his limp form is dragged to a van, hidden in the foliage, at the top of the hillside. He doesn't remember seeing it before careening off the side of the hill, but knows it must have been there because there is no one else around to have driven it here. _

_He only sees the woman again once he is fully laid out and buckled_ _in the middle seat of her van, and Dean remembers thinking that she's far too small to have been able to drag him all that way without breaking a sweat. And then he loses consciousness as the door closes. _

It's a scary realization, remembering what happened to him and knowing that, even then, he was helpless to defend himself. But it helps to know that at least at one point the paralysis he's experiencing was due to a drug injection and not an actual severing of his spinal cord. There's still hope; and he clings to that with everything in him, because he thinks if he can't he very well might lose his sanity. And that wouldn't help a damn thing.

But he still doesn't know why he's here, and that drives him so completely crazy wondering just how long this guy plans to keep him here and what else he plans to do to him.

And then there's still the issue of Sam, because even though he's almost positive that Sam isn't here now, he also knows that someday, somehow, this guy plans to bring Sam into this little plan of his. And what then? How does Dean save the two of them when he can't even save himself? It's enough to send him into a tailspin of worry and panic, and if it weren't for the fact that he suddenly feels so unbearably tired that he can no longer force his eyes open, he would have certainly managed to create himself his very own panic attack. And wouldn't that just be peachy.

* * *

Five buildings into the search Sam begins to get really and fully desperate. He was so sure this last warehouse was going to be the place. It is spooky and secluded and seems just the right atmosphere to house a kidnapper - supernatural or otherwise. But after entering, guns drawn, and scouring the whole freaking place from top to bottom, the only thing he has to show for it is a scratched arm from a broken pane of glass and another fifty two minutes wasted.

He looks down at his watch, blinking and squinting as though doing so would make the time backtrack by a few hours. But the time stays the same, nearly four pm, and he sighs wearily as he runs a hand through his shaggy mane and storms back out to Lori Ann's car. She follows him a little more sedately, arms outstretched as she demonstrates her primary concern that he doesn't do a face plant into the gravel. Sam wishes he could hide his haggard appearance from her, and the way he keeps unconsciously grabbing at his ribs. But he knows he's hiding nothing.

Three buildings back he made it clear that the only thing calling him on those actions would do was make him grumpier and more determined than ever to push his body past its breaking point in his search for his brother, and her silence on the matter is the only thing that has made the remainder of the trip bearable.

"Tell me again what you remember from the crash," she prompts when they are both back in the car and driving on to their next destination. "Maybe it will help you to remember something."

Shrugging, Sam begins. He figures it's worth a try. And what else does he have to go on right now? "There was someone standing in the middle of the road, and Dean swerved so he wouldn't hit them. We fishtailed and ended up going over the side of that embankment. He tried to stop; I could see him pumping the breaks like there was no tomorrow, but the ground was too muddy and it didn't do any good. We were coming up on a tree and the next thing I remember was waking up in the hospital with a concussion. They told me there that I was driving and there was no sign of anyone else having been in the car. I don't remember any of that, but I know for sure that I wasn't the one driving. That's all I remember."

"What do you remember about the girl in the road?" Lori Ann encourages. "Do you remember anything about her?"

Sam shakes his head. "It was too overcast to see much, and the rain was coming down in buckets. We barely managed to avoid hitting her in the first place. I think I remember seeing red, but it could have just as easily been pink or purple. I really don't know." Looking out the window, he watches forlornly as they drive through another residential area before they come into the clearing that holds the road to their next stop.

They're headed towards an old, abandoned school that has, for years, been in the middle of a battle over whether or not it should be torn down. Its history keeps it standing although, as they come nearer, Sam begins to realize that nobody is really caring for it anymore. The road they drive down to get to it is long and winding and filled with potholes, and with the tree cover all around he notices that he can't see another house anywhere. When he had seen it on the map he hadn't given it another thought, but now he realizes that this is the perfect place to hole up in. His heart beats faster as the car comes to a stop and he barely takes the time to collect his weaponry before jumping from the vehicle and making his way to the front door. Something tells him that Dean is here. He just knows it; he can feel it. _Hang on, Dean, I'm coming._

Lori Ann is right behind him, clutching tightly to the shot gun he has grudgingly allowed her to use, and he turns to her with a finger to his mouth before he peeks into the window of the front door. It's dark inside, the only light coming from the setting sun, and he can make out several shadows cast through broken windows but no sign of anything dangerous.

With a hesitant hand, Sam grips the door handle and pushes. The door opens with a soft creak and he stops, holding his breath for a moment, to make sure no one will come running at that. When he's certain they haven't been heard he steps foot into the building and looks around.

All down the hall, on either side of him, he can see classrooms. Most of the doors are closed and their windows are dusty, but he knows he has to check every last one of them just to be sure. As he looks down to the ground he can make out footprints in the settled dust, and are those tire tracks? Confused, he stoops down to observe more closely, and that's when the thought hits him.

"I never said it was a girl," he says in low tones as he fishes his knife from its ankle holster, gripping it tightly as he prepares to turn around.

"What?" Lori Ann asks, her tone pitched at least an octave higher than he's used to.

"The person in the road. You asked if I could remember anything about _her. _But I never said it was a girl," he repeats. His heart is racing wildly in his chest as he realizes he's been set up and he spins on his heel, ready to right himself and bring Lori Ann down when he feels the heavy thwack from the butt of his own shotgun being brought down hard against his jaw. He cries out in pain and surprise as the floor comes up to meet him, but it was a good hit and darkness immediately consumes his world.

* * *

There seems to be no limit to the torturous measures Dean's captor is willing to go through with him, and just when he thinks the trach is by far the worst thing the man can come up with the zombon is back in his room with what very closely resembles a power screwdriver. _What the hell is that for?_ he wants to ask, but the best he can do is mouth the words while the respirator continues its steady hiss as it breathes for him. Fear clouds his eyes, and he hates the fact that he is allowing himself to be such a baby about this. But what else is he supposed to do? He's at the mercy of his captor and the zombon, and they've done nothing but torture him to the full extent of their abilities since he woke up. This can't be good.

The intercom crackles to life, and once again he hears the voice of his captor come through it, taunting and teasing as it calls upon Dean's present situation. "Breathing any better, Dean?" it laughs, and continues knowing Dean can't answer him. "I bet you'd like to curse me out right about now. You do that so well...well, I should say you _did_ that so well. Having a little trouble talking are we?"

The merciless laugh that comes through the loudspeaker gets to Dean in more ways than he can count and he mouths, _Fuck you, _to the man even though he knowsit will never be heard.

"No worries, Dean. We'll fix that darn speaking thing soon. But for now, I have a special treat for you."

Dean can almost see the man's evil grin in his mind, knows he taking great pleasure in watching Dean suffer like this, and he knows whatever this _treat_ is can't possibly be good.

He continues with his jovial announcement. "I thought you might like to have that contraption removed," he announces with glee, then turns serious. "Now you have to understand, normally we wouldn't be removing the halo nearly this soon. It's far too early for you to be healed. But it seems as though we'll be having company sooner than I thought, and I want you to look your best for your brother, Dean."

_Sam! Sammy? What have you done to him you bastard? Where is he?_ Dean wants to scream, shout, cry. He really doesn't care what he does as long as it makes a sound. But there's nothing he can do. Sam's here, or at least will be soon, and he still hasn't figured a way out of this yet. What the hell is he supposed to do?

He hears the screwdriver start up, it's grinding whir irritating his senses and he flinches before he even knows what's going to happen. It stops for a second as the zombon approaches and he watches through the mirror as she places the tip of the screwdriver into the head of one of the four screws securing the halo to his head. The machinery starts up again, twisting the screw backwards through the bone and flesh it had originally been screwed into. Dean cries out in silent agony, his mouth twisted into a tortured yowl and his eyes scrunched tightly together. He can't watch.

Feeling the screw pull against healing flesh, once again tearing at the wound in his head, all he can think about is his immense desire to lose consciousness right now. He doesn't know why he should have expected sedation for this when the man hasn't shown mercy on anything else, but he still curses his captor for being so damn savage.

After three screws he throws up, which is terrifying in and of itself. He can feel himself suffocating as the meager contents of his stomach come back up and clog the trach. Some of it makes its way out of his mouth and still more leaches out around the edges of the plastic tubing before he hears the voice order the zombon to stop what she's doing and help him. It seems that this captor is not yet ready for Dean to die.

As though it isn't hard enough to breath with him aspirating into his lungs, Dean now hears the ventilator turn off and the sensation of all air is cut off. He hears another gentle whir as a different motor is turned on and suddenly the zombon is in front of his face, disconnecting the tubing from his trach and shoving a white plastic straw type thing through the hole in his throat as she suctions out the vomit from his trach tube. The sensation of being completely suffocated is overwhelming and yet Dean can do nothing but lay there in pure horror as he silently begs for his air supply to be reconnected. _Why are you doing this to me!? I want to live! _

Finally the zombon does reattach the tube to his throat and she turns the ventilator back on, and finally he feels the soft whoosh of humid air reentering his lungs. More tears fall from his terrified eyes as he tries desperately to calm himself down. He thinks he sees compassion in her eyes as she lingers for a second to study his complexion, but before he can evaluate what he thinks he's seen she's back up and working on the fourth screw. It's mind over matter, tenfold, as he forces himself not to throw up again. He doesn't want the experience he just had ever again.

At least now, the worst is over. The screws are out and the headpiece is removed. Dean watches the zombon clean him up, simultaneously wiping up the blood and the residual vomit with the same cloth before she slaps a square of gauze to each of the four wounds on his head. The first one is soaked crimson before she has the last done, and Dean knows they should have been stitched first, but what can he do?

"There now, isn't that better?" the voice calls over the intercom. You feel a little freer?" he mocks.

_Damn you. _The removal of the halo is bittersweet, because it really hasn't provided Dean with any more abilities. He's left with a screaming headache, and a bleeding head, and if anything, he actually feels more helpless because whatever drug they have coursing through his veins has affected his neck enough that he can't hold his head up. So when the zombon returns him to his back a few minutes later his head just flops weakly against the pillow and remains there.

Once again, they leave him alone to dwell in his own thoughts. And all he can think about is the fact that Sam is probably here in the building now, going through god knows what, and Dean has no way of protecting him. He's failed in his duties. He's a horrible big brother.

* * *

Sam wakes up to find himself slouched against a small radiator. His hands are tied securely behind his back and attached to one of the pipes, his wrist angry at being twisted into such a painful position. His feet are also tied together, at the ankles, but otherwise free. His head is absolutely killing him and as he moves his jaw about he wonders if it might be broken, cracked for sure. His ribs still scream out in protest to all the torture he's put them through in the last day and he promises that if he gets out of this mess alive he will give himself a full week to heal before making them do anything as strenuous as pick up a pencil.

For a few seconds he's disoriented as his mind and his vision fight over which should come clear first. But suddenly he remembers what has happened and with a gasp he groans, "Lori Ann. Shit."

When no sound or voice greets him he sits up straighter and takes assessment of his surroundings. He's in yet another of the many classrooms in this building, the old chalkboard tells him that much, and the fact that the only windows are small eight inch by two foot rectangles at the very top of the walls suggests that he is in the basement level. Gingerly, he tries to tug at his bindings, but finds the radiator pipe to be extremely secure for it's age and he huffs in irritation.

"I know you're out there!" he bellows, wondering only after he makes the racket if that's the best plan he could have come up with. But it's too late to turn back now, and he wants answers, damn it. For starters, he wants to know why Lori Ann spent all that time helping find Dean if she was behind this thing from the beginning. Damn, she's a good liar. She'd give Dean a run for his money in a competition, and that's saying something.

"Come and show yourself!" he screams again. "Just tell me why!"

And then there's the whole human factor, because even though he'd begun to suspect that what they were dealing with was human, it was still really hard to actually wrap his mind around that fact.

He's got a sinking suspicion that this whole thing was a set up from the very beginning, and he does a mental _gosh Sam, aren't you just the genius college boy,_ for Dean's sake before he gets down to the nitty gritty of trying to break this thing down. He doesn't recognize Lori Ann at all, although more and more he's beginning to think she holds similarities to the woman standing in the road. But the fact that he doesn't recognize her, doesn't know her from a previous hunt or a bar fight gone bad, or any other number of situations in his life only tells him one of two things. Either he's not thinking hard enough, or she's only from Dean's past and he's just being used as a pawn. Doesn't matter which of the two factors it is, all it boils down to is that they're both screwed if he can't figure a way out of his bindings.

He's hoarse by the time anyone comes for him, and when they do it's not Lori Ann. It's some other girl dressed in a nurses uniform, and he immediately recognizes her as one of the two nurses who were taken. Without looking at him she crosses the room hastily. She's got a glass of water in her hand, with a straw floating around the top and she sets it down beside him wordlessly before standing back up and heading out the door.

"Wait," Sam calls after her. "Please, I just want answers." But she continues out the door as though she's never even heard him.

He's left alone again, and he leans over, straining at his bindings to get a good drink of the water. He sucks the warm, metallic fluid all down in just a matter of seconds, and then sits back up. Back against the wall, he continues to mess with his bindings, realizing that if he could just get the knot to move a half an inch over he might be able to get his fingers around it well enough that he could untie it. But the knots are done up tight and well made, and there's really no way he can possibly get them undone. But he's got nothing but time, and nothing to do but to keep trying, and he figures at some point he just might catch a lucky break.

Time seems obsolete as he sits on the floor, drowning in doubt and self pity. It could be hours later, or just a few minutes - he really doesn't know - when Sam hears the footsteps tapping down the hallway on their way to his room. A sense of foreboding fills him, and he gulps down a huge knot in his throat as he waits for his streak of bad luck to continue.


	5. Chapter 5

**_Hey all - I just want to thank everyone of you who has taken the time to read and review this story. However, I'm not too proud to beg for more. I'm really eager to hear from more of you! Please send me your reviews. Thanks, guys. Here's the next chapter. _**

He's not left alone for long this time; maybe a half hour at the most. But with his emotions running rampant at this point, it's all Dean can do to keep from crying when the zombon returns once again to his room, certain that her return can't mean anything good. He hates himself for wanting to cry so bad, for letting his emotions control him the way they have. He hates himself for allowing the capture to occur in the first place; hates himself for not figuring a way out of this yet. And he absolutely despises himself for not figuring something out before Sam was dragged into this.

Inwardly cringing at the sight of the zombon returning so soon, Dean can't shake the fear that she's returned for yet another bout of torture. He doesn't know what to make of the monstrous contraption she drags in with her, unable to see much of it from his prone position on the bed. He can hear the mechanical whir and the soft clunk as it hits the doorframe, and he knows it must be heavy because she's dragging it instead of carrying it.

She stops, releases what she's pulling, and crosses the remaining distance to Dean's bed, leaning over him as she places her hands on either side of his face and corrects the angle of his head so it's straight on the pillow instead of hanging awkwardly off to the side. Not for the first time, Dean thinks he sees a flash of sympathy, of compassion, in the zombon's expression. But it passes quickly, and soon her eyes are as lifeless and devoid of emotion as they have always been. Did he imagine the emotion? Is he literally starting to go crazy from being locked in his own body for so long?

And then pushes it from his mind before he can allow the fear to consume him. "Let's get you talking again." Dean blinks, somehow surprised to hear the voice come back over the intercom, although he's not sure why it surprises him so much. The voice is never far behind when the zombon enters the room. And maybe it's not so much that he's surprised _at_ the voice so much as he's surprised at what the voice has to say.

_Talking? He's gonna help me to talk again? Why?_ Dean can't help but be suspicious. Even he knows that the stream of words coming from his mouth had been heavy with threats and expletives. He's had nothing constructive to say to his captor, and the guy has clearly been annoyed at hearing Dean's voice. But he's not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and he figures that learning how to talk again can't possibly be as difficult or painful as having a trach tube sliced into his throat or having 4 screws that have melded with bone and flesh be unscrewed from his head, neither one with anesthesia.

He waits, none too patiently, as the zombon raises the head of his bed up and messes with the tube in his throat for a few minutes, preparing whatever it is that's supposed to help him talk. The pull against his still tender throat is painful, but not nearly as bad as the initial cutting was. His head flops weightlessly against the pillow more than once as she does her stuff, but each time, she readjusts his head to a straight up and down position. Finally, he feels a wisp of air rushing back up through his throat and against his vocal cords and the zombon backs off a few inches as the voice of his captor returns.

"Talk in your exhale and you should be able to speak again," it offers as a means of explanation.

Dean hesitates, suddenly certain this is some kind of trick. He half expects laughter to pour from the voice when he tries to talk and fails miserably, discovering he was never supposed to talk in the first place. He has never heard of anyone being able to talk on a ventilator; he's certainly never managed to do so in the past, and lord knows he's tried. But then again, he's never had the tube shoved through a hole sliced into his neck either. So maybe...

He finally decides to try, concentrating on the feel of the air swirling around his vocal cords, preparing himself for the exhale, and succeeds on the first try. "You son of a–" he's cut off as the air flow stops so the vent can perform another inhale of air into his lungs and he grimaces at the lack of strength behind his words. But he's ready for the next exhale and finishes his thought with as much force as he can muster. "...bitch!"

The voice laughs sardonically. "I expected more out of your first words."

"Like what?" Dean growls when the air comes back up his windpipe again. He feels his head slipping once again and tries desperately to pull it back up and give him more physical power backing his words, but his neck refuses to cooperate and he finds himself lying like some child's floppy teddy bear as he tries to figure out a way out of this nightmare.

"A thank you would be a good start," the voice taunts, once again sing-songing it's way through the request.

If Dean had the strength to spit at the bodiless voice he would have, but as it is, all he can do is snap back, "You deserve to–" A breath. "– rot in hell."

More wicked laughter sounds through the intercom and Dean flinches as he hears the despise in the voice coming through. "Oh, I'm already in hell, Dean. And you put me here."

_Who the fuck are you?!_ Dean screams in his head once again. _And what the hell did I do to you to make you hate me this much?!_ But Dean's finally come to terms with the fact that he isn't going to be getting answers before this guy is ready to give them. And he's tired of feeding the fuel as he asks over and over again who, what, and why. So he just keeps his mouth shut and waits for the next step.

Apparently disappointed that Dean is no longer baiting him, the laughter slowly dies down and the voice returns to it's serious tone. "Proceed, woman," he orders, and the zombon once again animates, dragging her load closer still to Dean until it is sitting beside the bed.

With his head hanging limply off the pillow, turned towards the new equipment, Dean can now see it's some sort of high tech wheelchair, and he's immediately frantic to know what is to come next. His eyes widen as he takes in the view. On the seat of the chair is a stack of clothing, the same clothing that he had been wearing the day of the accident, and the zombon retrieves the top layer. She snaps it loudly in the air, airing out the still dirty shirt and revealing the dried blood stains that haven't been washed out.

Gentle, yet strong, hands reach out and pull Dean forward a bit, leaning him against her chest as she pulls the shirt over his head before leaning him back against the bed. Any other day, any other situation, Dean would have been thrilled to be planted face-first into some woman's chest. Even now a thousand comments filter through his mind, but thinking them and saying them are two completely different actions. Thinking is ingrained, primal. Speaking it, he just doesn't have the desire.

Without warning, she reaches out and unhooks the ventilator, leaving him choking and gagging for air that refuses to come as she pulls the shirt over the equipment in his throat and then reattaches the tube. Relieved, Dean relishes in the fresh supply of air, wishing the machine had an automatic gasping function to bring in extra large bursts of air like a normal lung would do after having been deprived of oxygen for any great length of time.

All obvious issues aside, it's not nearly as bad having the remainder of his clothes dragged onto his limp body, but Dean does find himself more than disgusted when she tapes his colostomy bag to his calf, realizing there's nothing more than a thin layer of plastic protecting him from being doused in his own piss.

But all in all, Dean does feel comfortable now that he's dressed, instead of lying around in all his naked glory. Yet it's a bittersweet victory.

He's unprepared for what comes next, although he figures he should have expected it. But he still finds himself feeling significantly humiliated as this little pipsqueak of a thing - _ok, so she's only a couple inches shy of six feet and clearly has some muscle build up; but she's a _woman_ for god's sake_ - hooks her arms under his armpits and lifts him bodily from the bed, sliding him into the waiting wheelchair as his uncooperative limps flop lifelessly behind him.

She lets him go while she turns to adjust something on the ventilator, and for a second, Dean can feel himself falling, his body ready to do a face plant, and it terrifies him to know that there isn't one damn thing he can do about it. At the last minute, the zombon turns back to him, stoops down and pulls his torso back up, fitting him squarely in the chair as she does up a seatbelt across his chest, strapping him in. She does the same for his head, lifting the heavy encumberment from it's position flopped against his chest, and strapping it to a headrest. His hands are crossed and rested in his lap, and his feet are strapped to the footrests. To his surprise, the zombon removes the IV from his hand, capping off the port, before resting the ventilator on a shelf at the back of the chair and pushing him from the room as he wonders where the hell they're going. _What the hell is next_?

* * *

Lori Ann leans casually against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely as she studies Sam. He's intent on freeing himself from his bonds; so much so that he doesn't notice her standing there for several minutes. She finally clears her throat and his head snaps back up as though someone's just released a stretched rubberband in his neck.

He knows she expects fear. Dread. Intimidation, at least. But instead, all Sam gives her is hatred shining through his dark eyes. "Where the hell is my brother?" he demands before issuing any concern for himself.

A wicked smile crosses Lori Ann's face, lingering there for many seconds before she decides to grace Sam with a response. "Nearby." It's not what he wants, but it will have to do right now. At least it means she's willing to talk. That's better than he's gotten from the majority of their hunts.

"What have you done to him? Is he safe?" There's a hint of worry in his voice, but Sam manages to cover the tone with a death ray stare, and Lori Ann noticeably shudders just a touch.

Sam feels a sense of power as he realizes that, even tied up and beat to a pulp, he still manages to give off a slightly dangerous vibe. He just wishes he physically had the power that he seems to give off mentally.

"He's alive," Lori Ann allows, removing her arms from their position against her chest and lowering them to clasp behind her back as she casually crosses the room, observing everything in the room except for Sam. "You'll see him soon."

Sam tries again, desperate for answers. "What do you want from us? What do you want from Dean?"

"You'll see," she replies calmly, continuing to traipse across the room as though it were nothing more than her own personal playground.

"Damn it, Lori Ann, I'm just asking for a straight answer!" Sam finally screams, unable to control his temper any longer. "You've already got me tied to a fucking pipe while my brother is god knows where. Shit, just give me something!"

She grins suggestively, shaking her head in disappointment. "I expected more from you, Sam," she scolds. "I figured it would take at least, oh..." she looks at her watch pointedly before returning her stare to Sam. "...Another couple of hours before you started yelling in desperation. I thought you were stronger than that."

Sam feels himself begin to tremble with fury and his fists clench tightly, trying to dispel the anger that has nowhere to go, no way to be released but through his words. He glares at the woman whom he'd grown to trust so quickly, hating himself for not seeing that she was one of the bad guys. _How could I have been so naive? How did I miss something so big? So important as the fact that she was the enemy?_

He pleads with himself to calm down and think about the situation from all angles, stepping back to figure out how he should approach this. When he speaks again, he's quiet, rational, pleading. "I just need to know something. I just need to know why."

Across the room from Sam, Lori Ann sighs sadly and sinks down to the ground against the wall, her knees bending and ending up pulled against her chest. She watches from afar for a bit and finally a flash of recognition crosses her expression. "I know what it's like to be afraid for someone you care for," she finally says, her words soft and sad. She stops for a minute, as though she's unsure why she's decided all of a sudden to open up. But something keeps her going and Sam leans back to listen, stymied by her sudden turn of attitude.

"I know how it feels to feel so utterly helpless and useless, to feel as though your hands are totally tied. It sucks."

Sam nods his agreement, too afraid to speak for fear that her decision to open up may be short lived. She's speaking the story of his life.

Lori Ann sees Sam nod and a half smile plays across her mouth as she shares her burden with her captive. But then her eyes harden a bit and she cocks her head to the side, suddenly remembering why she's here; what her mission is. Suddenly she remembers that she doesn't have to keep pretending as though she cares about Sam and his well-being. She remembers the plan.

"Your brother is the reason why I know that pain," she glowers. "And he's the reason why my boyfriend knows pain. Your brother ruined our lives." Suddenly she's back on her feet again, pacing roughly across the old painted concrete floor.

"He...he what?" Sam stammers, unsure how to take her unexpected rampage. He finds himself wondering if she's mental, bi-polar maybe, and then realizes that it doesn't much matter right now. He doesn't want to believe it; _doesn't_ believe it. Dean helps people; he doesn't ruin lives, he saves them. There's got to be more to her story than what meets the eye.

"You heard me!" Lori Ann screams frantically. "Your brother ruined Adam's life. He ruined my life. He messed with things he knew nothing about and he totally destroyed everything!"

Sam's more confused than ever now, and he doesn't have a clue what he can say, what he can ask, to get the answers he needs. But he's desperate. And at this time, he really doesn't have much to lose. So he asks.

"What...exactly...did he do to you? To your boyfriend?"

She sneers, crossing the room in three long strides and grabs Sam's chin roughly in her hand and practically spits as she hisses out her answer. "He took everything away from Adam. He took away the one thing that could make us happy."

If the situation wasn't so dire, Sam would groan and roll his eyes. _Has this raving chick never heard of a straight answer?_ But instead of tempting fate, Sam ignores her blatant skirting of a direct answer and goes for a different tactic. Instead of asking what has been done to her, he decides to ask what she has done. Maybe pride will get him the answers he needs.

"Are you really a nurse?" He starts simple, struggling against her tight grip even as he tries to keep his voice level.

She bites. "That part is true. But I wasn't coming from work when I picked you up. I'd been following you since you left the hospital. I was hoping you'd pull some stupid stunt like that; made my job so much easier."

"So you had this whole thing planned," he continues. "Right from the get go."

Laughing, she finally releases his chin with a mighty jerk, sneering menacingly. "Boy, Stanford sure did well to get a genius like you on their campus. Nothing gets by you, does it?

Sam ignores the remark, refusing to let her get to him. "And it was you in the middle of the road? The girl we almost hit?" He already knows the answer to this one, but want's to hear her say it. Want's the confirmation.

She nods, proud even. "It was so easy I could have done it in my sleep," she brags. "You knocked yourself out in the car, so I didn't even have to worry about getting you out of the picture. And Dean was so groggy when the car first stopped, he didn't even hear me approach and reach in the broken window to inject him. Then I just had to wait for the medication to do its job."

"You actually managed to drag my brother up that hill? All by yourself?"

"I'm stronger than I look. It really isn't that hard once you know how to do it."

There's still something nagging at the back of Sam's mind, over and above the obvious 'why is this happening in the first place, and he poses the question hopefully, figuring this is something that might actually explain the situation. "Why didn't you just take us both when you had us in the car? Why did you play me for two days before bringing me here? What's the point?"

Conjuring up a wicked smile, Lori Ann stops and fixes Sam with an eerie gaze that makes his blood run cold. "Because I wanted you to know what it feels like to be so helpless. I wanted you to feel the fear of not being able to help someone you love. Because you aren't blameless in all this, Sam Winchester."

It's the last thing he hears as he suddenly spots the pipe she's had hidden behind her come crashing toward him, slamming into his head and causing blinding pain to consume him for a second before he's enveloped once again in blackness.

* * *

The room Dean is brought into is huge, and he can hear the zombon's footsteps echo in the vast emptiness of what must have once been a cafeteria. There are no tables left behind, but across the room he can see the buffets built into the walls and the large, paneless windows that one time probably separated the lunch ladies from the students. It's the first time he's realized they're in a school, or at least what was once a school, but the knowledge of that does very little to alleviate his fears and confusion.

After stopping the wheelchair, the zombon leaves Dean alone in the room, retreating back the way she they came in with fast footsteps. He sits there for several minutes, wondering why exactly he's been brought in here and just left, until his thoughts finally wander back to his plight and exactly what his options are. Because that is really the only thing keeping him sane right about now; convincing himself that there's some way he can get himself out.

The fact hasn't escaped his attention that he's been here two days and he hasn't experienced so much as a twitch in his paralyzed body. There's got to be an explanation for that, he figures, and hopes beyond all hope that it was some sort of drug they've been feeding him through the IV tubes. _It can't be real,_ he repeats to himself over and over. _This can't be a real injury. There's got to be more to this. I just know it!_ But then he wonders why they would risk removing the IV if they've been pushing paralyzing drugs into his system. Didn't that risk the drugs moving out of his system, thus mobilizing him again?

_Damn it, Dean, stop it! STOP THIS!_ On top of his desperation, paranoia is beginning to seep into his overworked mind. This thought freaks him out to no end, because paranoia is just one step closer to crazy, and Dean doesn't want to be crazy. He doesn't want to give this jack-ass the benefit of knowing he's accomplished the daunting task of breaking the great Dean Winchester. No way - he won't give him the satisfaction.

So he starts to look around the room, or at least as far as his eyes can see from their position in his strapped in head, and he tries to take notice of all the possible exits. It's the Winchester way; always be prepared. Always know your options. It's the only thing he can come up with as to why he's searching for escape exits when he doesn't even have a clue how he would get himself to those exits in the first place. There's a joystick on the armrest of the wheelchair, and he can only assume that it powers the contraption he's been strapped into. But it does him no good if he can't get his hand to it and wrap his fingers around it.

Never before in his life has he felt so helpless; never has he felt so useless. Or so he thought. He thinks this is the worst feeling in the world, this lack of feeling. He thinks there's no greater pain than the absence of pain and the knowledge that he's got no chance to change his future in this current position. But that was before they dragged Sam in.


	6. Chapter 6

**_Alright guys, remember when I said I got this idea from SAW? Well here is where that little plot bunny truly comes full circle. For those of you who are fans of the movie (and I'm not one of them - haha) I hope I do this justice. For the rest of you, hopefully it's not too dark. And for every single one of you - thanks so much for reading and reviewing. You have no idea what kind of a payment it is to receive such great comments - that is the only payment fanfiction authors get, and I can't thank you enough for what you offer. _**

All-encompassing nausea becomes the dominant feeling as Dean watches an unconscious Sam being dragged into the room by two women. He orders himself not to throw up, memories of the last time that happened just hours earlier making him remember what a terrifying feeling that is, and studies the women pulling his motionless baby brother across the floor. The first of the two has the same, unmistakable blank gaze in her eyes that the doctor zombon has, and Dean knows without a doubt that this is one of the missing nurses. But the other woman is so clearly animated, the scowl on her face so obvious, that he begins to wonder if this has been his captor all along.

That doesn't make any sense, though, because he thought for sure the person behind the voice was a man. And more than that, he had been certain that when he found out who had done this to him, he would come face to face with a mirror image of his own circumstances; an unmoving, unfeeling man trapped, strapped, in a wheelchair, ventilator hosing running to a trach in his throat. So what did this clearly vindictive, mobile woman have to do with his situation? And what is she doing with Sam?

A tear springs to his eye as Dean fights to break free of the invisible bonds that hold him captive within his own body while he watches his baby brother being dragged under the armpits across the painted concrete floor, knees dragging soundlessly behind. One look at him, and Dean knows little brother didn't fare well in the accident. He's bandaged up, hospital issue, and Dean knows for certain it didn't come from their captors. Despite the fact that Dean himself has been cared for in what seems to be a medical environment, he also knows that they've only done the bare minimum to keep him alive. The torture was never meant to end in death.

Sam's knee is wrapped in a black brace, and his arm is in a tan Ace wrap. Bruises mar his little brother's face, at least what little face Dean can see through the mop of brown hair that falls in his eyes as Sam's head hangs limply at his chest. For a minute, Dean wonders if they've done the same thing to Sammy as they did to him; fill him with so many drugs that he can't move, can't breathe. But somehow Dean knows Sam is merely unconscious right now, yet he's not sure if that's any more comforting.

"–m!" Dean opens his mouth to scream, frustrated when once again he's remembered the structured airflow that provides him an opportunity to speak. The ventilator has been in the process of taking a breath as Dean calls out, and the air only appears in time to sound out a squeaky 'm.' _What the hell have you done to my brother?! _Inside he screams and shouts and punches things and stomps his feet. But on the outside his body is still just as dead and innocuous as ever.

Trying again, Dean waits impatiently for the feel of the air moving against his windpipe, and he cries out. "Sammy! What have you bitches–" he's cut off again, and frustration overcomes him. He can't even get out a full sentence. _Damn it!_ What good are threats and demands without the force to back them up? "–done to him?"

The brunette, the animated one, looks up and leers at Dean as they finish dragging Sam across the room and dump him in a heap on the floor. "He's just resting, Dean. Don't you worry your pretty little head. He'll be awake soon." She wrenches Sam's wrists behind him, attaching them with handcuffs to a hot water pipe at the base of the wall, still fifteen feet from where Dean sits.

He'd thought he felt helpless before, but this goes beyond all feelings of helplessness he's ever experienced in the past. This is torture, pure and simple, and for Sam he's not above telling his captor that. If it will make the guy happy, give him what he wants so that Dean can finally get on with his life, can finally be released from this invisible prison he's been bound to, and get over to Sam. "You've done it you bastard!" He screams, or at least as much as he can scream with a limited supply of air and a tube shoved into his throat. Another breath of life giving air, and then, "You've got me. You showed–" Breath. "–me what it's like!" Breath. God, how he hates this. "Now show yourself! I ne–" Breath. "–need to get to Sam!"

As if on cue, Sam starts to stir in his new position of captivity, grimacing against the pain in his head. He blinks. Once. Twice. Three times. And then finally manages to focus on his surroundings. Lori Ann is the first thing he sees, her cold eyes staring fiercely at him, and Sam backpedals, feet scrambling for purchase on the slick floor. Wincing, Sam's breath begins to speed up. "What the hell?"

"Surprise!" The girl steps to the side, arm arcing away in a grand gesture to display Dean properly.

Sam's eyes widen at the sight of his brother, unsure what to make of the image of his larger than life big brother so still and unmoving, strapped into the monstrous wheelchair. He knows something is wrong even before he sees the tubing protruding from Dean's throat and hears the whoosh of the ventilator that's all too familiar for his liking. He's heard the sound so many times in his short life, and it sends chills down his spine as fear of the unknown encompasses him. His brother should be writhing around, trying to free himself from the restraints that hold him into the chair, but instead he's barely blinking, and certainly not breathing. And Sam notices that the restraints aren't even all that restraining - Dean could easily break free of them if he tried. One across his chest, one on his forehead, one against his ankles, but nothing restraining his hands. They just sit there, immobile, in his lap. He's not even trying.

"Dean?" Fear and confusion vie for dominance in his eyes as Sam begs an explanation from his brother in that one word.

"Sammy, are you–" the ventilator cuts him off and Dean's face scrunches in frustration as he has to wait to force out the last word. "–okay?" His heart sinks when he sees Sam's fear escalate into terror at hearing his older brother struggle to speak and he wants so much to cross the room and pull the younger man into his arms, to tell him that everything is going to be okay. But he's still not sure of that answer himself, because he's been free of the IV now for close to an hour and still there's nothing. No sensation. No movement. No fight against the ventilator as his lungs regain control of themselves. His only hope right now is to know that Sammy is alright. It's the only thing that he can see as an upside to this nightmare.

"Dean, what's wrong with you?" Sam cries out frantically, in lieu of an answer to his brother's question. He pulls desperately at the restraints around his wrists, seemingly oblivious to the torture that move is placing on his injured wrist and ribs. "What the hell did they do to you?"

It becomes a fight of obstinance as Dean returns an answer to Sam's question with yet another non-answer. Both are too worried about knowing the other is okay to worry about himself, and it seems as though neither one will be answering the other's question without first getting an answer of his own. "Sammy, please–" another breath. "Just tell me you're–" breath. "–not hurt."

Another voice intrudes on the silence, combined with a soft mechanical whir and that same sucking whoosh Dean has come to know over the past couple of days, and he knows he's finally about to come face to face with the voice that has tormented him time and time again since his capture. It's hard to believe it's only been two days. It feels like a lifetime.

"How about I answer that for you, boys."

Dean sees Sam look over to the left, Dean's right, and he rolls his eyes in the same direction, trying to catch a glimpse of the man who's figured out a way to torment the great Dean Winchester. He doesn't know what he's been expecting all this time, doesn't exactly know what he thought the guy might look like. He guesses he'd expected powerful, maybe dolled up in some kind of metal suit contraption like the terminator. He'd expected muscle and brawn and cracking knuckles. What he hadn't expected was exactly what befell his eyes as he stared on in stupefied confusion at the shriveled twerp of a man in front of him.

The thirty something young man guiding the wheelchair through a straw in his mouth sports spastic limbs that are clearly atrophied underneath the loose fitting pants and shirt he wears. Like Dean, he is attached to a ventilator by means of a trach tube, and his legs and chest are strapped tightly into the chair, although his head is free to move around. Apparently he has more neck control than Dean currently possesses.

He comes closer, planting himself directly between the boys, and Lori Ann immediately rushes to his side. He first looks at Dean, glaring at him as he speaks. "You wanted to know who was doing this to you. I'm here. Ringing any bells?"

Dean stares hard, looking the man up and down as he waits for any sort of recognition to flash through his mind. But there's nothing there; just a big black hole that refuses to offer any sort of help. He'd remember some high tech, monster of a wheelchair. He's certain of it. 'No,' he says, and ends up mouthing the word because he's misjudged the flow of air yet again.

The man laughs. "It's not as easy as it look's is it?" he taunts to Dean's inability to control his voice. "So you really don't remember me. How about you, Sam? Does my face ring any bells?"

Placing his lips back around the straw, the man turns his wheelchair so he's facing Sam. But Sam has already had the chance to study him, taken plenty of time to rack his brain for any form of recognition, and he too has come up with nothing. "I'm sorry," Sam expresses, genuine emotion seeping through because he can sense just how much the man wants to be remembered, and even though he hates the situation, he knows how much it must hurt to be forgotten.

Sneering, the man returns to his original position so he can see both brothers. "Of course you don't remember me. You only remember the faces of those you save. You don't remember your victims."

Dean's mind reels. _Victim? This man is his victim? How can that be?_ _He's human!_

"I wanted you to know what it's like to be me. You need to know what your actions can cause. You're so quick to react, you never stop to think about the repercussions of your actions. You never stop to think about the victims."

"I don't understand." Dean speaks up, pitifully. "What did we do to-" breath. "–you? It's not what–" breath "–we do. We save–" breath. "–people." It hasn't escaped Dean's notice that his captor has somehow managed to manipulate his own ventilator so that he doesn't have that noticeable gap in his speaking, and it's just one more reason for him to hate the man. And then Dean stops himself, realizing that he's hating a crippled man because he can talk better than he, himself, can, and he wonders just how many levels of wrong that really is.

"Yeah, well sometimes you don't know what you're talking about. Maybe you should start asking people if they want to be saved before you jump in all righteous and sanctimonial with your Latin words and your holy water. I had it good. I had things under control. I had my life back!" The man is shrieking by the time he's done, face red, and if he could have, there's no doubt his body would be quivering. But it, too, remains locked in a shell of itself. Now, Dean knows what that feels like.

Sam's eyes are wide and his expression is that of horror as he whispers out, "did we...do that to you?"

The man laughs, vicious, hollow, but the brother's don't get the joke. "Did you what? Put me in this chair? Cut off my air supply? Leave me an empty shell of what I once was?"

Both Winchester's flinch at the nakedness of the comments, but it's Sam who replies. "We didn't...we couldn't have..."

"Not the first time. No. That one was reserved for a man named Wendell Dresden."

A flash of recognition sparks in Sam's mind. _That _name is familiar. Looking over at Dean, Sam knows his brother remembers the name too. It's the name of the third victim. The name that had brought them out to the same town six months earlier, because the man had died under such suspicious circumstances; ripped to shreds in his jail cell. But he still doesn't know what that has to do with the shriveled up man in front of him. So he does the only thing he can do - they both do - they listen.

"The first time was two years ago, when Mr. Dresden found his wife screwing around with his best friend and he decided to go drown his sorrows in a fifth of JD before hopping back into his car to confront them. I was on my way to the church, it was my wedding day, you see, and my light turned green. I went. But so did he - or rather, he just never stopped. Slammed into the side of my car so hard the damn thing flipped three times. Broke my neck in two places."

Behind him, Lori Ann places her hands against his shoulders, making it clear that it was she who was to marry the man that day. She lifts one hand and runs it through his hair, stroking it as she assures him it's okay. She slips in a name, Adam, and immediately both brother's are filtering through their memories, trying to pick out an Adam that fits this face. But they've met so many Adams in their time. He might as well be John Doe, for all the good a name does.

And confusion is more evident than ever now. If they didn't cause the man's injury, why is he punishing them. Patience was never Dean's strong suit, and after two days of this torture, two days of being fed half answers and roundabout truths, he wants to know everything.

"So what's that got–" Another fucking breath. "–to do with us?" Dean demands angrily. "You still don't get it, do you? Not even that college boy brother of yours - that is what

you call him, isn't it?" He's asking Dean, but looks at Sam. Sam shakes his head.

Clearly disappointed in them, Adam tuts and shakes his own head. "I was in a coma for three months; my family, my friends, they all just about gave up on me. And when I woke up, I was like this. Trapped in my own body. Unable to move. Unable to breathe. Unable to care for myself. Fated to let others care for me as though I was some priceless piece of china that might break at any second. It's not a fun feeling, is it, Dean?" he sneers, moving his wheelchair until he's face to face with the man he's held captive for two days, tormenting him with the same routine that he's had to endure for two whole years.

Their eyes lock and Dean tries to get his head to move enough to nod. It remains still, but he answers anyway, hushed. "No. It's not."

"You could barely deal with it for two days. Try living it like I have."

Dean pushes harder, still desperate for answers he's not getting. _If he's so bitter, why not punish the man who did this to him? Why not punish Wendell Dresden_? And then it hits him, like a smack to the gut, and Dean's eyes widen in recognition. _But how? Why? _"You...you killed–" _God damn lungs! _"–Wendell. But how?"

Looking over to Sam, Dean knows he's still confused. Still trying to conjure up an explanation. But it wasn't Sam who had gone face to face with the man. Sam had been in a corner, spouting out the exorcism ritual while Dean had fought off the possessed man who had killed Wendell Dresden and five others before the hunter's came to town. The man who, six months ago had been standing and fighting and _moving!_ Yet now sits in front of him, strapped into a wheelchair with no control over his own body. Truth be told, Dean knows how it's possible, but he's never heard of a Demon purposely taking control of a crippled body. It just doesn't seem logical - there would be too many questions to answer, it would be too obvious that something wasn't right.

"I wasn't trying to conjure a demon," Adam offers as means of explanation. "I was just...bored. There I was, with nothing but my mind to occupy me, and I come across some ancient Latin texts on conjuring demons. I thought it was all a joke, some big prank. But I needed to be working on my breathing and my speaking and I figured, what the hell. It could be fun. So I started reading the texts out loud."

Sam flinches and looks over at Dean. They both know what the guy is going to say next, or at least know the reader's digest version of his tale. But they stay quiet, waiting to hear it from Adam. It's the only way to understand this whole thing.

"You can imagine my surprise when the next thing I know there's this thing. This...this sort of holographic black cloud like person standing in front of me. We talk for a while, don't ask me why. I mean, it was nuts, right? Except it doesn't try to hurt me, and the next thing I know we've struck up a deal. He can use my body for his work, and I can use his powers for mine. He sort of pours into me, through my mouth, and the next thing I know I'm back to the old me again. I've got my mobility back. My lungs work again. The muscle atrophy is totally gone. We've agreed, I can use my body during the day and he can use it at night. I mean, I really didn't need to sleep anymore, so it was the perfect trade off, you know?"

Adam is searching for confirmation, some sort of agreement or acceptance from his captives. Seems he's been reading far too much into Stockholm syndrome. But if he thinks Sam and Dean are suddenly going to start relating to him, that they'll start feeling sorry for him and understanding why he's done what he's done, then he hasn't done near enough research on the brothers Winchester.

Dean glares at his captor, feeling totally enraged at what he's heard so far and at what he knows he's about to hear. The guy made a choice, a fucking _choice_ to deal with the demon. If he could move, he knows his entire body would be trembling at this revelation. From the corner of his eye, he sees his pointer finger on his right hand start to shake with the effort and issues a silent sigh of gratitude. But he can't let this guy know he's finally starting to get his motion back and he slaps on his well honed poker face and stops the movement in his finger as he returns his attention to the story.

"I hadn't really figured out what the plan was. Thought maybe the shadow, the demon, just wanted to go out and have some fun, you know? Have a few rounds at the bar, play some poker, crack a few harmless jokes. But after the first two people, I realized there was more to this than I thought, and I figured I could get in on the deal. So the next night we went after Wendell. It was so easy - I had this stealth that I'd never experienced before. And the power!" Adams eyes glow eerily as he recounts his experience with the demon in his body, and the brother's shudder. It's not supposed to be fun. But to him, it was.

"The thing is, I had accepted its presence. I'd allowed it in. But then you two screw up do-gooders appear, thinking you know what's right, and you expel the damn thing right back out of me. I _wanted_ it in there! He gave me my life back. And you took it from me! And when I tried to get it back, none of them would have me. They said I was damaged goods - touched by a hunter. Touched by a _Winchester._"

Sam flinches, eyes wide in disbelief, and he whispers a question. "You were really okay with it killing innocent people? With it using your body to do that work?"

Adam nods fiercely in affirmation. "It was a trade off I was willing to accept. Either way, something else had control of my body. But at least this way I had control during the days. You don't know what it's like to be locked inside a body that won't move. You don't know the pain of seeing someone you love have to clean you up and dress you and lift you into and out of bed every damn day. Your brother does, now. He knows what it's like to feel so helpless. Ask him if he would have done the same thing."

They both look to Dean, wondering, waiting. Sam's eyes hold fear, as though he thinks Adam knows something about his brother that he doesn't. He wonders if he's totally misjudged Dean - would he? Would he strike a deal with a demon, just to regain movement? To get his life back? Dean locks eyes with Sam, holds them steady for a minute as he bores deep into his little brother's soul and finally speaks.

"We kill evil. We don't become it." It's firm. Matter of fact. Honest.

Sam let's out a low sigh. _Thank God._ But that's not the end of things, he realizes, as Adam lets out a loud, wicked cackle and moves his chair so that he's face to face with Dean once again.

"Is that so?" Adam taunts. "You're saying you would honestly accept this as your fate if it meant saving someone else? You would trade your own life for theirs?"

"In a heartbeat."

Adam lets out a low cackle, and there's no doubt he would be rubbing his hands together wickedly if he could. "The irony of that statement, Dean, is that I thought the same thing of myself...that is, until I was actually faced with the decision. So we'll see just how noble you really are. The decision is yours."

Dean feels something pull at the back of his neck and hears a clicking sound. It feels as though it's actually pulling through the skin and his hand jerks spastically before he can stop it. He settles the rebel limb quickly, hoping he hasn't accidentally given away his remote advantage. He knows it's not much, but it's all they have right now and he can't afford to lose it. Dean tries to turn his eyes, his head, to see what's going on, but he's still unable to do much more than lock eyes with Sam and look to him for an explanation.

"What the...Lori Ann?" Sam asks, eyes widening and then narrowing when he sees what his reaction is doing to his brother. In the dim light of the room and the way Dean is positioned Sam can barely make out exactly what has been done, but he knows Lori Ann has pulled a thin rope from the ceiling above and it's now crossing the air overhead at an angle, linked to something at Dean's neck. From the look of pain marring his brother's feature's, Sam figures it's actually attached to something on Dean's neck.

But with barely the time to think about that, Sam feels himself being pulled up to his feet roughly by one of the nurse zombons as another slips something around his neck and tightens it. In the same motion his hands are released from the hot water pipe by the zombon doctor and then recuffed behind his back, hanging by themself, but useless against the rope around his throat. A fleeting thought causes him to question why he didn't fight back, but knows the element of surprise combined with his foggy mind that three beatings to the head in as many days will cause, has rendered him slow and inadequate.

Dean's eyes widen in horror as he watches his baby brother get strung up before his very eyes. In an instant, he's fighting with the limited movement in his hand, willing the motion to flow through his arm and the rest of his body. He needs his mobility back; Sammy's life is on the line. But no matter how he plays it, no matter how much he fights, he can't get more movement than some lethargic jerks in the five fingers of his right hand.

He tries threats instead, unsure how well that will go over, but running out of options. "You let him go or–" breath "I swear I'll kill you–" breath "both." he spits out. His eyes produce the promise that his body denies him, and for a minute he's certain that his warning has been heeded as he watches Adam and Lori Ann exchange nervous glances. But the moment is fleeting, and soon they're back to working on whatever great plan they've come up with to teach the Winchester brother's a lesson.

For the time being, Dean can see that Sam is fine. The noose is firm and taut around his neck, but doesn't pull any more than it has too. Sam is breathing without difficulty. Dean isn't comforted, but he's at least grateful for the time it's allowed him to prepare. To think. To plan. Adam has other ideas for this time.

The man Dean had previously come to think of solely as 'the voice' steers his wheelchair forward, squaring himself with Dean so that their knees touch and their eyes meet. "You have a choice, Dean. I'm giving you that much, because it was given to me at one time. When I first brought you here I had the good doctor position a small wire into your neck and around your spinal column. Right now, it's harmless - everything you have experienced these last couple of days has been the result of drugs. Drugs that, from what I've seen of your right hand, are slowly receding from your system."

Dean flinches as he sees Adam cast his dull gaze to the hand that he's worked so hard to keep still once the movement returned. He looks down too, silently screaming _traitor_ at the limb despite his previous unending desire to regain anything. He just wishes it hadn't given away his advantage.

And then he pauses mid-thought, because all of a sudden the man's earlier words are sinking in and he suddenly finds his brain screaming. _Nonononononono!_ _Fuck! _Something has been wrapped around his spinal cord. Something that could do some serious damage if used the way it's clearly intended.

He doesn't have to wait long to find out what Adam intends to do. Now that this guy is talking, he's a veritable fountain of information. Except, suddenly Dean doesn't want to know anymore. He liked it better when he was left in the dark. It's cozier there. Safer. But that isn't Adam's intention anymore and he quickly proceeds with his plans.

"I've attached the wire I told you about to a rope that runs overhead into a pulley system. I'd tell you to look, but I don't think you've regained that much neck control yet."

Across the room, Dean sees Sam's frightened face as he looks up, spotting the pulley and letting the gears in his geek brain start to turn. But Adam's not done yet, and something tells Dean that he really needs to focus on everything this guy tells him. So he tears his gaze away from little brother and listens, scowl set firm on his face.

"Now on the other side of the room, we have your precious baby brother," Adam mocks. "And he is attached to another rope, only his is wrapped around the _outside_ of his neck. You seeing where this is going yet?"

Dean glares hard, but doesn't say anything. He can't allow this guy to have any form of leverage on him right now, and there's no telling what he might say if he talks.

"What? All of a sudden you don't have anything to say? Isn't this a change." Adam doesn't dwell on his taunting right now, though; he's far too eager to get on with his master plan. "Both ropes are rigged to a reverse pulley system, Dean. In a minute, Lori Ann will flip a switch that will start tightening the rope around dear Sam's neck, slowly strangling him. You, Dean Winchester, will have the opportunity to save him. But it comes at a cost. Because the only way you can save him is for you to press that little joystick on your wheelchair forward, but as you do that it's going to pull on the wire embedded in your spinal column. Eventually, that wire will slice clean through your spine, rendering you completely paralyzed from the neck down; unable to move, unable to breathe. Sam will be alive, but you...your body will be dead."

He finishes, a smile to rival the devil's on his face, as Lori Ann steps forward and roughly plants Dean's slightly mobile hand around the joystick before crossing the room to flip the switch. There's a whir of sound as gears begin to turn and the rope around Sam's neck tightens a notch.

"The choice is yours Dean..." Adam reminds him.

And the game begins.


	7. Chapter 7

**_Alright guys, so here's the deal. The response to this last chapter was incredible. And as a Thank You, I have decided to post another one tonight. It's hard to wait out such a cliff hanger, so I'm going to help you all out and give you something more to chew on. Thanks so much for the wonderful responses! Here we go..._**

Dean would do anything for his baby brother. This is a fact that has never wavered in twenty-three years. It's something he's never questioned, something he's never doubted. He has spent his entire life jumping in front of bullets and pushing him out of the way of monsters, carrying him from burning buildings not once, but twice. The day of Sam's six month birthday clinched the deal for big brother; he would protect Sammy at all costs. And the decision to do so, and how to do so, has always been black and white.

Until now.

Now, Dean is faced with a dilemma greater than anything he's experienced in his entire life. To save Sammy means his own body has to die, yet his mind will live.

To save Sammy means condemning himself to life as a statue - a talking, thinking statue.

To save Sammy means condemning Sam to a life of guilt and servitude. Because no matter which way he plays it, Sam will never leave Dean's side if he's an invalid. He will no doubt feel responsible, that Dean has gotten hurt saving his life. He will devote his life to caring for Dean.

And Dean can't let that happen.

But the alternative is to let Sam die; to watch the noose cinch tighter and tighter around his baby brother's neck, slowly squeezing the life out of him. It's a frightening way to die. It's slow, and torturous, and humiliating, and there's no way Dean can allow that either.

And that's not even considering his own feelings at his proposed fate. He's just spent two days trapped within his own body and he nearly went insane. How the hell is he expected to spend his entire life like this? It's one thing to be ready to die. Death, he can deal with; the whole here one minute, gone the next thing - that he can do. He's prepared himself for death, accepted it as inevitable in his line of work. He's been willing to trade his life for Sam's for as long as he can remember, longer in fact.

But this isn't death. This fate that Adam has seen fit to throw at Dean is living at its worst, and he's not sure he can subject himself to that fate. It's been pure torture being hooked up to a machine to breathe for him, letting some stranger feed him and wash him and help him with daily life functions. And something tells him it will actually be worse if he has to allow Sam to do those same things for him. He can't do that, can't _be_ that.

Which brings him back to square one. The dilemma. The first time in his entire life that he's questioned what the right thing is when it comes to Sam. And he's got to make the decision soon, because as he sits here, mind locked in a tormented fight over what's right and what's wrong, the rope is slowly tightening around Sam's neck.

Dean blinks several times, bringing himself back to the present where Sam is staring at him with those desperate puppy dog eyes he's so good at, imploring him to be the hero he knows big brother to be. Begging him to do something. Anything. _Just make a decision, Dean. _

Sam's feet are still on the ground, so Dean knows the rope hasn't done damage yet, but he's now on his tip-toes. It's only a matter of time before Sam's hanging by a noose off the ground. His throat will close up and his air supply will be shut off, and Dean will slowly watch his baby brother choke to death.

The irony behind this is that Dean thinks - no, he knows - that Sam believes in him wholeheartedly. Sam honestly and truly believes that Dean has a plan to get both of them out of this dire situation without more injury. His little brother has faith that Dean can save him without screwing himself in the process, and Dean knows this because otherwise Sam would be martyring himself for Dean just as Dean is about to martyr himself for Sam. He knows Sam would no more want to see Dean destroyed than Dean wants to see Sam hang. It's that faith that spurs Dean into action.

But he doesn't have a plan; no plan A, and certainly no plan B, C, or D. All he's got is Adam's decree - that moving the chair forward, pulling on the cord literally attached to his neck, will loosen the grip of the rope on Sam's neck. By slicing through his own spinal cord, Dean can save his brother.

He makes the decision in an instant, realizing it is really the only decision he can make, the only option he has. His entire life has always been devoted to saving Sam, keeping Sam safe. So he'll sacrifice himself, sacrifice his body, and put his little brother back onto firm ground. When all is said and done, Dean figures he'll find himself some Kevorkian wannabe and put an end to his suffering once and for all. But only after he's certain that Sam is safe.

There's a tingle in both arms now, starting in his fingers and running all the way up to the elbows, and he can pretty much wiggle every finger at least enough to be noticeable, but that's where the feelings and the movement stops. Dean has nothing in the majority of his arms, or the rest of his body, and he still knows the ventilator is breathing for him – he's yet to trigger a breath on his own.

So it takes a considerable effort to get his hand close enough to the joystick to make it worthwhile, and as he struggles to do so, pulling the dead weight of his arm towards the front of the armrest with just his tingling fingers, he can see the rope around Sam's neck pulling tighter and tighter. Another centimeter more and Sam's feet won't even be touching the ground anymore.

Dean can see Sam's face starting to turn purple as the oxygen is depleting from his system. His eyes are bulging out, and he's scrambling with his hands, behind his back, in a fervent effort to break free of his restraints, but the effort only tugs more at the rope, tightening it faster.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean can see their captors, looking all too calm in the face of what is too come. There's not a sign of remorse or a hint of squeamishness shared between the two of them. Lori Ann has her hands on Adam's shoulders, softly kneading the muscles as her eyes dart back and forth between Dean and Sam, eagerly awaiting the outcome.

Adam has not once taken his eyes off of Dean, and it's clear from the unwavering gaze and the hatred in his eyes that he's enjoying this way too much. Although, what he would prefer Dean's choice to be – death or paralysis – is unclear.

The only thing Dean knows is that Adam wants him to have to make the choice, wants him to understand the torment that comes out of making a choice like that. Dean does; but not for the same reason Adam wants.

Behind Adam and Lori Ann are the three zombons, lined up in a straight row with their arms at their sides and their heads facing straight ahead, at a soldier's attention. At first glance they seem to be staring into space, gaze focusing on nothing, and Dean is really too busy to notice anything different. He's got more important things to think about…namely, Sam. Later, in his hospital bed, he'll look back at that pose and realize something wasn't quite right.

But not now. Now, Sam is barely hanging on to life. He's still struggling, but it's slowed down as his throat constricts from the pull of the rope and his brain is deprived of the much needed oxygen.

It's now or never. The tips of Dean's fingers are close enough to be touching the joystick, and he's had enough time to hesitate in the molasses-like trek to drag his hand to the steering mechanism. With one final effort he brings his hand closer and pushes his fingers against the joy stick.

From there, everything happens too fast for him to wrap his mind around it. The wheelchair lurches forward and he's struck by a blinding, white hot pain in his neck at the same time as he feels his hand knocked off the armrest, away from the joystick. The room spins and his ears fill with the sound of buzzing, and he fears he's about to pass out. Dean closes his eyes against the pain, both emotional and physical, knowing there's nothing more he can do. His life is over. But he's saved Sam. That's what's important. That's what matters.

A lifetime seems to go by as his brain struggles to reconnect with the exterior world. It's only after the buzzing stops and the dizziness allays that he finally realizes he can hear shouting; angry words and demands and shrieks are being tossed all over the room. A female voice is screaming, _I know. I know. I'm on it, _while a male voice – it has to be Adam – is frantically shouting commands, desperation in the tone as it becomes clear to Dean that the captor has somehow managed to lose control of the situation.

He pries his eyes open, blinking in fast repetition for several seconds as he fights through the swirling mass of color and frenzy in front of him, his own desperation clear as he searches for Sam among the chaos. His little brother isn't where he'd left him; he's not dangling from the rafters by a noose around his neck anymore. It's several more seconds before he realizes that Sam is on the ground, and that the two zombon nurses are hovering over his lifeless body, touching him and shaking him.

"Let him go!" Dean croaks out in little more than a whisper. He's hysterical now, searching anxiously for a way to get to Sam and finding he's shit outta luck. Diverting his eyes to the armrest and the joystick he sees that his right hand is now dangling completely off the edge of the rest, and his fingers will no longer move to pry the arm back up.

He spends another half minute working his way through the chest clenching realization that his fingers aren't moving anymore; that he can't _make_ them move anymore, and that he's back to where he started, only this time it's probably permanent. _Fuck! _

He hadn't really expected the wire to actually rip through his spinal cord. He hadn't really expected the threat to be true. There had always been a thought in his mind that Adam was just messing with him, was just fucking with his mind and trying to make him think something might happen that really wasn't going to. Now he knows that thought, that hope, wasn't real.

Across the room, Sam's still on the ground and the two zombons are still fussing with him. Their hands are all over his face and neck and chest, pawing at him, pounding on him. In his haze of consciousness, Dean is barely able to grasp the fact that they're performing CPR, that the pounding is chest compressions and the hovering is rescue breathing. His mind still wants to scream at them to get away from Sammy, but his heart forces him to see that their ministrations are for the best.

Somewhere along the line the zombons have changed sides. Dean doesn't know how that happened, or when, and definitely not how. All he knows is that the frenzy clear in Lori Ann and Adam's voices is enough to tell him that they are no longer in control of the situation.

The next thing Dean knows, there are hands on his face and a soothing voice filtering in and out of his mind, and he figures he must have lost consciousness for a minute or so because he can't remember how the hands and voice came to be near him. He blinks, trying to focus, and finally finds himself face to face with the zombon doctor. There is a soft smile on her face, intermingling with the obvious concern as her mouth moves up and down. But Dean can only make out hollow sound, no real words.

He tries to shake his head, clear his mind so he can actually understand what she is saying, but the hands are holding tighter to his face than he had originally realized. Somehow he knows not to be afraid of her anymore, though.

Several more seconds go by before Dean can finally understand what the woman is saying. "Stay with me, Dean. Don't move, Dean. You need to keep your head still. You're going to be fine." She repeats the same mantra over and over again, trying to get a response, and Dean finally groans to let her know he's with her.

"Dean? You with me?" She prods, voice more forceful now that he's responding.

"Sam. Where–"

"They've got him, Dean. He's breathing again," the doctor assures, still bracing his head firmly against the head rest. He tries to push forward against her hand, trying to see for himself that Sam is fine, and she tightens her hold even more.

"You can't move you're head. Can't move your neck," she insists. "I don't know how much damage the cord did to your spine before I stopped you."

More confusion enters his mind. "Wait, you– you stopped." breath "All of this? But." breath "How? You were–"

"I'm not sure," she admits. "I just...all of a sudden I felt my control come back to me. We all did. I've been fighting it for so long, but all of a sudden I was okay again."

"Adam? Lori Ann?"

She seems to understand his question and turns to inspect the room, eyes widening in surprise when she discovers they've managed to disappear in the frenzy. "They're gone."

"They're what?"

"I don't know. They're just gone. I have no idea what happened."

Dean can't hide his surprise either, amazed that they've just given up and booked it, a niggling feeling in the back of his mind telling him that it can't be as easy as that. But there's no time to dwell right now. Sam needs a hospital.

"Call an ambulance."

The doctor nods firmly. "I already did," she assures him. "The paramedics are on their way."

Rolling his eyes to the right, Dean tries once again to see his brother, weakly pushing his forehead against the doctor's hand. He can just make out Sam's still form hidden behind the two nurses. He's not moving. And despite the fact that Sam is apparently breathing again, there still seems to be too much activity surrounding his little brother.

But the doctor is adamant, raising her voice to demanding as she presses harder against Dean's forehead. "DEAN," she shouts at his groggy gaze. "Unless you want to be paralyzed like this forever you have to STAY STILL."

That gets his attention, and he shudders as an unbidden tear streams down his cheek. "I don't want to." breath. "Be paralyzed. Can't live like this."

"I know, Dean. I know," she soothes. "I'm doing what I can. You have to work with me, though. No moving, do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Say it Dean. Repeat it back to me. No moving."

"No moving. I understand."

Although her hand never budges from Dean's head, she seems to calm down as he assures her he won't try to move again. Simply seeing Sam isn't going to help his brother, and Dean selfishly decides he wants to save himself, too, if possible. He can feel himself panicking, once again knowing the only thing keeping him from hyperventilating is the sheer fact that he no longer controls his own breathing; the irony being that it's also part of the reason he's panicking in the first place.

It's all Dean can do to calm his emotions enough to think lucidly. He needs answers. Now. Before the cops and the paramedics swarm the place. And right now the doctor in front of him is his only chance.

"What happened to you?" He asks, voice weak but still demanding.

For a minute it's clear that the doctor doesn't think _now_ is the time to be telling her story, and she falters. But then she seems to realize it's the only thing that will keep Dean occupied, keep his mind off his brother and his situation, and she offers him the Reader's Digest Version of what happened. Maybe, later, she'll give him the whole story.

He tries to listen, really he does, but there's a combination of nausea, dizziness, and pain taking control of what little bit of his mind he's still holding onto and all he gets are a few scraps of information here and there. _Grabbed in the hospital parking lot...woke up trapped in her own mind, no control...forced to care for Adam...tried to find a cure for his paralysis_..._couldn't...then Dean and Sam... _

The important parts he grasps onto, but his consciousness still wavers uncontrollably and he finds he can't really comprehend all that she's telling him. She finally gives up, finishing a sentence without continuing, not completing the story, and instead just sits quietly with Dean's semi-conscious form until the paramedics burst in.

xxxxxxxxxx

The information given the emergency dispatcher by the doctor means that the entire place crawls with cops and EMT's within ten minutes of the call. They burst in with a grand flourish, bypassing any kind of a stand off when their inspection through the windows reveals there to be no sign of Adam and Lori Ann.

There is an uncertainty as to whether the three women hovering over the brother's are dangerous or not, and the first officers to burst in demand they raise their hands in surrender. The two nurses do so immediately, eyes wide and darting back and forth from the officers to their downed patient. But the doctor refuses, and frantic voices order her louder to let go of the 'man' and put her hands up.

"I can't!" she shrieks back, unwavering. In his haze, Dean wonders how it is that she's managing to remain so calm, but that's just another thing to add to his list of questions for later. Right now, he knows why she isn't letting go and he can't let her get shot for him.

"It's alright," Dean insists, words slurring as he tries to remain conscious. "She's helping--"

His words are so quiet, Dean doesn't even get to finish before the cops are once again shouting at the doctor to remove her hands, and she screams once again, seemingly oblivious to the multiple guns aimed at her.

"He's got a spinal cord injury! I can't let go. I have to hold him still!"

They blink at this, staring dumbly at the frantic woman with her hands clenched around the kid's head, suddenly unsure how to proceed. The doctor, on the other hand, knows exactly what to do.

"Get me a c-collar over here and a back board. He needs to be immobilized immediately!"

Two medics finally spring to action, crossing the room with their gear as the cops continue to aim their weapons at the doctor.

"You were told to step away from him," one officer calls out, stepping closer to the commotion.

"And you were told to get him help!" the doctor screams back. "Once he's stabilized you can do whatever you want with me." She turns her back to the guns, speaking quickly as the medics do their job. In all this time, Dean is barely cognizant of what is going on around him as his mind floats somewhere in outer space. He makes out bits and pieces of the conversation, blinking now and then to remind them he's still alive, but no longer responds to their questions.

"His name is Dean," the doctor informs them. "Twenty seven year old male with a suspected SCI."

The medics look at her as though she's grown a second head. The kid is strapped into a wheelchair, unmoving, breathing through a ventilator. Of _course_ he has a spinal cord injury. Any medic with half a brain can see that.

She shakes her head, frustrated at the situation. "No. He didn't _really _have one before. Adam just..." It's too long of a story to tell. One for another day. "Never mind. He's been on drugs. Neuroblockers. But this injury is fresh. Real. We can still save him if we're careful."

The medics nod, already unhooking the vent to slip a c-collar around Dean's neck. His eyes go wide as he's cut off from his air supply again, but they medic is quick and soon he's breathing again, the hose protruding from a large hole cut into the collar.

Dean feels the change of control as the female medic slips her hands along the side of his face and the doctor removes hers, immediately lifting them over her head and stepping away from him. Somewhere deep inside he knows he should be doing something, that it's wrong for her to be taking the blame for what Adam has done, for what Lori Ann has done. But his mouth feels all cottony, his tongue dry and swollen, and he can't talk anyway because the speaking valve has been removed when they put the c-collar on him.

He tries anyway, moving his lips slowly and deliberately. _She's O-K. Let her go._ No one hears him. The hollow sound of voices fills his mind in place of his own thoughts and he finally lets go, allowing other's to deal with the situation. If he's still alive later, he'll save the doctor.

From over his shoulder, Dean hears a gasp, a cry of horror from the male medic as he circles around to secure the collar at the back of Dean's neck. "My god, look at this. Look what they did to him. Who would do something like this?"

The female's eyes go wide, questioning. She can't leave her post, holding his head still, not until the head and neck are completely stabilized. But the guy wasn't talking only to here; he's calling to the officer's, too. Three break formation, the doctor and the two nurses now cuffed and secure, and come to look at what Dean knows is the cord still clipped to his neck. The doctor had stopped him from going any farther forward in his chair – or maybe that was his spinal cord severing and destroying the synapses between his brain and his limbs – either way, she didn't have time to remove the line before the cops burst in.

"We need to get some pictures of this," one of the cops insists.

"Yeah, well we need to get him stabilized and to the hospital," the male medic replies just as insistently. "Bitch was right, he could have an SCI. This is just freaky."

Clearly the cop isn't giving up on the picture request because he hears the female growl an annoyed, "fine, but stay out of our way."

Then he sees bright flashes of light encircle him from the back as he feels two blocks of plastic foamy things take the place of the female's hands and tape secure them around his head. They're red, he can see out of the corner of his eye.

"We've got to move him. Give us a hand here."

Suddenly he's moving, floating through the air as face after face come into his view, both cops and medics.

"You're gonna be alright, kid. We've got you," the female medic soothes, still hovering over his face. She's pretty, kinda surfer like. Bottle blonde hair, blue eyes, dark tan. She smiles at him, revealing a row of perfectly straight, dazzling white teeth. "You still with me?"

Dean blinks once. _Yes._

It's a disconcerting feeling, floating. He can feel hands on his head, on his neck, but the rest is just a numb void of nothingness; might not even be there for all he knows. They lower him to the floor and he can see a little bit of the straps they're using to secure him to the back board. There's been plenty of opportunities to learn the inner workings of backboards and stretchers between him and Sam. _Sam! Fuck. Sammy!_

Immediately his docility falters and he's wild with fear, head thrashing the little bit it can against the neck brace and the foam restraints as he remembers Sam. Sam, who was too still on the ground before. Sam, who tried to save him and ended up kidnapped instead. Sam, who he'd risked his own life and mobility for just to get him free from the noose. Sam, who he'd forgotten about, once again, in his half lucid state. What kind of a brother did that?

Surfer medic appears in his line of sight again, hovering over him as she puts a hand to his face. Contact. Where touch is in limited supply, he feeds off of the feel of her hand pressed against his cheek. "Dean, you're name's Dean?" she asks, remembering what the doctor had said earlier.

He blinks once, flares his nostrils, and mouths 'yes,' but continues to strain to see Sam. She smiles again.

"Dean, I need you to calm down for me. Can you do that? Can you stop trying to move?" He sees something large pass over his head and settle somewhere lower on his body, and realizes it the portable ventilator.

'Sam,' he mouths desperately, and when the girls face screws up in confusion, trying to figure out what he's saying, he mouths it again. And again. And again. 'Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam."

"Let's move out," the male EMT orders, pulling against the gurney as surfer medic finally gets what he's saying. The ceiling, the only direction Dean can see, begins to move. Slow at first, then faster. He's not just floating anymore, but flying.

Surfer medic stays right there in his line of sight, arms stretched out to guide the stretcher, but eyes directed on him. "Sam?" she asks tentatively, as though deciphering the wrong word coming from his mouth might just break him. Dean's not so sure it won't.

_Yes! Sam, that's it. Sam. My brother – how is he? _He squeezes his eyes shut then opens them, realizing for the first time that they're moist, glossy.

"Is Sam the other guy that was in here?"

Dean's eyes go shut again, tighter this time, and when he opens them back up again he mouths 'yes.' He bites his trembling lower lip then sticks out his dry tongue in a failing attempt at moistening the chapped lips.

Surfer medic's mouth pinches a little bit and her eyes become locked in concentration, as though she's searching her mind for what to tell him. She settles for the bare minimum. "He was stabilized and they took him in an ambulance just a minute ago. You two will be taken to the same hospital, so they can tell you more once we get there."

It's not enough information to go on, doesn't satisfy Dean's anxiety, but for now it will have to do. Knowing Sam was alive a minute ago will have to do.

The medics and cops wheel him through the hallway and out the door of the cafeteria to a set of steps where they have to collapse the wheels and carry the stretcher to the top. From there he's rushed outside to the waiting ambulance, rocking a little as they lift him inside and slam the double doors shut. The vehicle pulls away with its sirens blaring and lights flashing, led by a police cruiser whose occupants have been assigned to hospital duty; guard the victims. Aside from a dull feeling of jostling in his head, Dean doesn't feel a thing. This time he knows it's not from the drugs. This time he knows it's serious. Adam has won.


	8. Chapter 8

**_As promised...another chapter. Hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving!_**

Sam wakes up in the ER. There is a flurry of activity all around him, doctors and nurses shouting orders and statistics across the room to each other, machines beeping, instruments flying. His body is a mass of pains, old mixed with new; sharp, dull, throbbing, constant. His last memory is of the rope around his throat, constricting, cutting off his airway, crushing his windpipe. That makes him realize, now, that there's a different pressure on his throat, almost numb, but he can tell there's a tube crammed down there. Panic sets in. Alarms start blaring.

"He's awake. He's fighting the breathing tube," someone calls out unnecessarily.

Suddenly there's a face looming over his own, mere inches from his nose. The woman doctor, her skin a creamy milk chocolate, smiles kindly, yet sternly. Her wiry salt and pepper hair is pulled back into a tight bun and she wears minimal makeup, only a soft pink lipstick shows up. "Sam, I'm Doctor Webster. You're in the ER right now. Can you understand me? Squeeze my hand if you understand."

Sam feels her gloved hand slide into his loose grip and he squeezes weakly, just enough to tell her he hears her, as he continues to thrash against the restraining hands of the nurses and orderlies.

Doctor Webster offers a curt nod and orders, "Sam, you have to calm down. I'll tell you what's going on, but first you have to be still. Otherwise I will be forced to sedate you. Do you understand?"

Wild eyes finally tame as the impact of her words set in. Sam goes limp, compliant, and waits expectantly to hear what she has to say.

"Sam, you have a tube down your throat. It's there to help you breathe. Right now you are breathing on your own, but your throat was starting to swell shut and we had to put the tube in before you suffocated. It has to stay there until the swelling goes down. Alright?"

Sam nods once, his wide eyed expression following the lady doctor's every movement, pleading, hoping for more. He doesn't care about himself right now; his own condition isn't even registering as important. He wants to know about Dean. Needs to know if his stupid brother sacrificed himself to save him, because how the hell else can he be lying here – alive - in the ER unless Dean's somewhere fighting for his mobility. Damn stubborn bastard.

"It also looks like you have several recently treated injuries in addition to some new ones. Have you already been here recently? Do you have a chart?"

Sam nods again and tries to speak. _Dean. I want to know about Dean!_

"You won't be able to talk with that tube in," Dr. Webster announces, a hint of apology in her voice. "Can you write it down for me? If I give you something to write with can you tell me your last name?"

He reaches his hand out, ready to accept the pen. A wipe off board marker is placed in his weak fingers, with the board held about arm level. In childish chicken scratch Sam scribbles out _Keyser _and then_ Dean???_

"Who is Dean, Sam? Is he someone we can call for you?"

Sam shakes his head and shakily writes _Brother. Hurt 2._

"He's the young man who was found with you? Dean is your brother?"

_Damn it, yes lady. I just spelled it out for you. Tell me how he is!_ Sam's eyes scream what his mouth can't and by some miracle the doctor gets it. She looks around the room, finds an eager young intern hovering by Sam's feet, and points a finger.

"Garner, his brother is over in ER 3. Run and get me a status on him. Quickly."

Alternating between relief and consternation, Sam allows himself to relax a bit. The doctor takes this as her cue that he's ready and able to answer more questions and she leans over him anxiously.

"I need to know if you have any allergies? Are you allergic to any medications, Sam?"

_Geez, what's with the need to repeat every question twice?_ Sam thinks as he shakes his head. No allergies.

"Good, that's good. How does your head feel, Sam? Do you feel any dizziness? Nausea? Numbness or tingling in your extremities?"

_One question at a time, doc. I can't talk, remember?_ He reaches for the wipe off board they've provided him and writes _Some dizzy._

Dr. Webster chews her lip nervously and examines Sam's chart before leaning over to a nurse and whispering something Sam doesn't hear into her ear. The nurse nods, disappears from sight, and Dr. Webster once again leans over Sam as she shines her pen light into Sam's eyes.

"I'm worried about your head, Sam. I want to run some blood tests and take you up for an MRI. Do you know what that is?"

Sam nods. Of course he knows what an MRI is. He's had so many MRI's in his life he's practically magnetic himself. He'll go - what does he have to lose - but first he needs to know about Dean. With a fisted hand he wipes the ink off the board, giving himself a semi-clean surface to write on, and scribbles - _Want 2 C Dean 1__st__. Then MRI._

The air in the ER room gets heavier suddenly as Dr. Webster scans the area, her eyes settling longest on the door as though she's looking for someone. The intern. But she doesn't get the answer she seeks, and instead she blanks her face and shakes her head. "I'm sorry, Sam. I don't think that's a good idea."

It's too late. Sam has already seen the trepidation on her face, knows there's something she's not telling him, something dire about his brother. He wants to know. _Tell Me!_ He writes, screwing his face up in his most determined face - _I mean business_.

Sam see's the young intern return to the ER, eyes cast downward, only willing to seek out the doctor. Dr. Webster crosses the room, clearly relieved to escape her demanding patient, stalling the inevitable. Sam watches the two lost in a quiet huddle as the doctor's hand oscillates between her mouth, her chest, her belly, cycling over and over again. It's bad. He knows it's bad.

When she returns to his side the doctor is all business, speaking rapidly to her crew, spouting orders and demands as though Sam isn't there at all. She won't meet his stare, tries not to see the wipe off board that he's stubbornly still marking on - drawing line after line underneath his demand to enhance it's urgency. Someone finally removes the board from his reach, takes the marker from his grasp, and Sam is left with only one way to communicate. Force.

His hand shoots out, grabs the doctor's wrist in a vice grip, and pulls her to him. Instinctively, she jerks back, eyes growing wide. But Sam's hold is strong, as is his gaze, and it only takes a minute for Dr. Webster to realize he means business. He wants to know about his brother, and he wants to know _now._

"Alright, Sam, I'll tell you. But you're not going to like it."

He glares at the doctor, grip unrelenting despite her agreement to talk, not willing to let go until he's heard what he wants to know.

Dr. Webster sighs. She studies her patient for a little bit longer, as though she's trying to decide if maybe she can sneak a sedative into his IV before he can stop her, and decides to do as Sam asks.

"They're taking him up to surgery right now to try and stabilize his spinal cord. He's not feeling any sensations at all, but I understand some of that has to do with the neuroblockers in his system. They can't know the full extent of the damage until the drugs have been flushed from his system. Right now, it's just a game of wait and see."

The words tumble from the doctor's mouth in a cacophony of jumbled sounds and phrases. Sam really only hears a few select words because his mind has effectively shut the rest out as he internally berates Dean for being so stupid and stubborn and self-sacrificing. He ended his life - life as he knew it - for Sam. Now it's wait and see...wait and see if he will ever walk again. Wait and see if he will ever hold a gun again. Wait and see if he will ever _breathe_ again. Stupid. Stubborn. Ass.

Sam's eyes water, but he doesn't try to wipe them dry. They don't water for him, they water for Dean. Sam deserves to feel embarrassed at his un-manliness. He deserves to feel the chest clenching, gut wrenching pain and suffering, knowing that Dean sacrificed himself so that Sam can live. He deserves whatever comes his way now. It's his guilt to shoulder.

"Are you ready to go now?"

Feeling the gentle hand on his shoulder, Sam blinks and sees the compassionate face of his doctor hovering over him once more. The wrinkles in her eyes and the purse of her lips declare the fact that she's sorry for having been the one to give him the bad news, wishes it could have been better. But he doesn't need her pity, her sympathy. She should scorn him, recoil from him. This is his fault.

He doesn't bother to try again to ask about seeing Dean, already knowing what the answer will be. So instead he shrugs non-committal and feels the gurney start to move forward, out the door. There's only one thing Sam knows for certain right now, and that's the need for him to live. He doesn't deserve it, but Dean doesn't deserve to be left alone now either. Not after what he's sacrificed to save Sam.

The MRI department is backed up five patients long, and the nurse doing Sam's bloodwork is new, so it takes over three hours before he's finally finished with all the testing and is admitted to a room. They've got an immobilizer on his knee, a new brace on his wrist, some fresh tape wrapping his injured ribs, and seven new stitches hidden beneath the stark white bandage on his head. That's not to mention the soft collar they have around his neck and the vent tube that is still shoved down his throat, although he's breathing on his own. It won't come out until the swelling goes down, and the swelling could take several days to recede. That's the worst case scenario.

Best case scenario, which Sam is determined to accomplish, is that the swelling recede enough by the evening that he can have the tube removed so he can talk to Dean.

They won't tell him how his brother is; only that he's now out of surgery and they have him stabilized. Dr. Walters assures him that Dean's doctor will be in shortly to speak with him, but that was over an hour ago now, and Sam's patience is wearing thin. He _has_ to see Dean, has to see for himself that he made it through surgery. Dean needs him.

He sits in relative silence for another four hours, his forced meditation interrupted only by the nurses who flit into and out of his room checking vitals, and administering fluids and medications. One arrives around dinner time with some thick brown liquid type thing that she pours out of a can into an elevated bag that's attached to a tube in his nose. Until now, Sam had thought that was some sort of additional oxygen tube. Now, as the stuff flows down to his stomach, he knows it's a feeding tube and he's never been more disgusted in his life. But he sits there, lets his stomach get filled up on the Ensure, and wonders when Dean's doctor is going to grace him with his presence.

The man waits until close to nine that night before he shows up, breezing into Sam's room with a cocky arrogance that immediately has the young Winchester on edge. He'd gotten his wish just a few minutes earlier, that the tube be removed from his throat, and while his neck is still swollen and sore, and he can barely get in a decent breath let alone speak, Sam still demands news on Dean before the man has a chance to say a word.

The doctor sighs, rolls his eyes without even trying to hide it, and crosses his arms against his chest, leaning over Sam in a domineering fashion. He's the best in his field - that's what Dr. Watson had told Sam earlier - and the man clearly knows it. The only reason Sam doesn't jump up and throttle him right then and there is because Dean needs the best.

"Sam, I'm Dr. Prentiss. I treated Dean when he was brought in this afternoon," the man says flatly, as though he's telling Sam the details of his boring day. _I went to the grocery store, then stopped and filled the car with gas..._

"How is he?" Sam demands, voice raspy and barely there. He lets his eyes do the real talking.

"He's as good as can be expected under the circumstances. I have stabilized his spine with a steel rod, and removed the string your, um ... captor ... had threaded in there. There is some swelling around his spinal cord, and the string in there has caused a minor infection. Right now he is unable to breathe on his own and there is no sensation or movement from the top of his shoulders down."

"Is it permanent?" Sam interrupts, unwilling to listen to the neurologist drone on about his brother being powerless, stuck in a bed.

Dr. Prentiss glares at Sam, clearly getting the point across that he doesn't appreciate being interrupted, but continues. "I don't anticipate the condition to be permanent, no. But we really can't know for certain until the swelling recedes, and for that to happen we need the infection to go away. With luck, your brother should be experiencing sensations within the next three to five days."

"So he's going to be okay?" Sam demands.

"I believe so, with time, yes," Prentiss agrees, and Sam knows this isn't standard doctor procedure. Doctors give odds and possibilities, but in the end they give you the worst case scenario and work their way up from there. He wants to believe this man more than he's ever wanted anything in the world, but he knows better than to put all stock into the statement. The man is a pompous jerk, and pompous jerks are incapable of admitting their failures. He can only hope the man lives up to his reputation, not his appearance.

"Does he know all this? Is my brother awake?"

Prentiss nods again, crossing his arms against his chest. "He has come in and out of consciousness since he was brought in. He was mildly sedated during surgery, but he came out of it relatively quickly. We spoke after that."

Immediately terror clenches at Sam and he finds himself scrambling to get up out of bed. The thought of Dean being alone, scared, helpless, as Prentiss told him his fate with that cold, uncaring tone has Sam's blood boiling. He has to get to Dean; has to make sure he's okay.

The doctor's mouth falls into something akin to incredulity as he sees what his words have provoked in the young patient before him. It takes him a moment to find his voice. "Young man, what on earth do you think you're doing?" he finally demands, rushing for the call button to attain some assistance; a nurse, orderly, another doctor.

"I need to see my brother," Sam rasps, wincing at the feel of the thousand knives stabbing into his throat. "He's got to be going crazy right now."

It only takes a few minutes for Sam to convince the staff to let him see Dean, certain it's his threat to sign himself out AMA that finally does the trick, and now he's being wheeled brusquely down the hallway by a muscular orderly who has clearly been on duty for a few too many hours. The man isn't exactly rude, but he's not entirely fun and giggles either. They traverse the hospital to the Neurology unit in silence, and the guy only speaks enough to inform the nurses caring for Dean that he's dropping 'the brother' off before depositing Sam at the nurses station to let them finish the work.

The woman who takes over is in her late fifties, thin, with dyed red hair and a meticulous makeup job. She crouches in front of Sam, settling her manicured hand on his good knee and making eye contact as she introduces herself. "Sam, I'm Holly, Dean's primary nurse for this shift. Have they told you what to expect?"

Sam shakes his head nervously, meeting her gaze and allowing himself to feel safe in her capable hands. "Dr. Prentiss barely told me enough to know he's alive and awake," he spits out, unable to keep the annoyance at the doctor from his tone.

Holly offers a knowing smile and pats him on the knee. "Prentiss is the best there is, but he's got the bedside manner of a grizzly bear. Let's go over here and talk for a minute before I take you in to see your brother." She doesn't wait long enough for him to give a response, just pushes back to her feet and steers Sam's wheelchair to an empty corner. Sitting in a chair across from him as she gives him the twenty on his brother's condition.

Her description is both more comforting and more disturbing than Dr. Prentiss' and when she finishes Sam isn't sure if he feels better or not. Holly starts off by assuring Sam that Dean's diagnosis is promising; there's no indication that the damage to his spinal cord is anything more than some severe swelling and that he's expected to make a full recovery sooner rather than later. But that's the end of the comfort factor.

She tells Sam that Dean is currently on a ventilator - they're using the tracheostomy site that was already there, and it's clear that she's more than a little confused as to why it was there in the first place. Sam doesn't feel like explaining. He's still not even sure that _he_ knows all the details.

She tells Sam that Dean isn't able to move or feel anything from his shoulders down, and that they have his head immobilized to limit the movement in his neck, which basically means his brother is reduced to his lips and his eyes - definitely not something Dean is likely to be happy with.

She tells Sam that Dean is hooked up to multiple tubes and wires to monitor his vitals and feed him and give him fluids. And that they have him in some sort of moveable frame that Sam doesn't bother to remember the name of, so that they can spin it and rotate Dean's position periodically so he doesn't get bed sores. And Sam doesn't ask what bed sores are when she glosses over their definition, deciding that he doesn't want to know because it's not important. What is important is that Dean is going to get better and all this medical mumbo jumbo that they're spewing at him right now will soon be obsolete. What's important is that Adam and Lori Ann didn't get what they were trying to get, and that they are now in jail for what they've done. Sam hasn't yet talked to anyone to know they somehow managed to escape.

When Holly feels confident that Sam has as much knowledge as he needs to see his brother she offers to take him into the room. Sam nervously considers his answer. Her description is both more comforting and more disturbing than Dr. Prentiss' and by the time she has finished Sam is no longer sure if he feels better or not.

Finally Sam nods, eager, yet hesitant, and she takes control of the wheelchair and guides it down the hall to the curtained off partition that hides Dean. She pauses before drawing back the curtain, giving Sam one more chance to prepare himself.

The big reveal elicits a gasp from Sam that he's unable to hold in. There is barely any part of his brother's body unencumbered by some type of medical equipment. A neck brace, similar to the one from their captivity, keeps Dean's neck stable as the blue tubing of the ventilator snakes away from his throat at the tracheostomy site. A blood pressure cuff encircles his left bicep, continuously filling and emptying as it takes a constant readout of his pressure. Electrodes decorate his torso, monitoring his heart rate. IV's run from ports in the back of one hand and the crook of the other elbow. Another tube is running into his nose, providing sustenance, and yet another is a catheter, peeking out from the sheet draped over Dean's waist.

The frame scares Sam the most, its mediaeval appearance seeming more torturous than helpful. He can only assume there's more to it than meets the eye. The part Dean is lying on is like any normal bed, rectangular, twin size. But built up from that are foam walls, one on either side of his chest and running down past the outer edge of his legs, a triangular piece that braces him on the inside of his legs, and one wall on either side of his outer arms. Two square metal braces are locked down on top of each leg, padded side down, to keep his legs in place. Another two foam covered metal ovals rest on either side of Dean's head, near his cheeks, keeping it steady. Fabric seat belt-looking straps are secured across his torso, shoulders, and head to keep the rest of him in place. The bed rotates on a central bar, capable of laying horizontal or of rotating up to ninety degrees in either direction. Currently they have the bed on a constant, slow rotation to evenly distribute the pressure.

The sound of the ventilator whooshing and the heart monitor beeping fills the silence of the room, plotting out a steady rhythm for Dean's life. Sam stares, mesmerized, at the monitors above Dean's head, almost too afraid to rest his gaze too long on his broken brother. He knows it's not permanent, forces himself to remember that over and over again because the alternative is too horrible to think about. A millimeter more, a second later, and Dean would be dealing with this for life. They have no clue just how lucky they are.

At first glance Dean looks like he's sleeping and Sam takes control of his own wheelchair, approaching quietly so as not to disturb his resting brother. He's torn between wanting to talk and not knowing what to say, but finally just fills his silence with his brother's name.

"Dean..."

At the same time, the nurse steps forward to stop the movement of the bed, halting it so that it's at a forty-five degree angle facing the curtain partition and Sam.

His brother's eyes open immediately, making it obvious that he wasn't asleep after all, but the pain and desperation that shines through has Sam wishing he had been.

'Sammy,' Dean mouths silently, unable to speak without the valve their captors had provided him with. Apparently, the hospital staff doesn't feel it necessary to offer the same amenities Adam had. 'You're okay.' The older man's relief is palpable in the tense air, but it vies for attention with Dean's fear and his frustration.

"Shhh," Sam leans over Dean and puts a finger gently on his lips. It's the only visible spot Sam can see that is equipment and bandage free and he knows Dean will be able to feel his hand there. The rest he's not so sure. "Don't try to talk. Just rest. I'm here and I'm not going anywhere."

Dean closes his eyes against the tears that threaten to invade his body, biting down on his lower lip but turning his face toward Sam's hand. Right now that little bit of touch is the only thing he has, and he doesn't want to lose it.

"You're going to get better," Sam reassures, widening his hand to give Dean more surface area of touch. "Dr. Prentiss did tell you that, didn't he?"

_If you can call his announcement of 'congratulations, I'm a genius,' a revelation of my healing, then yeah, he told me. _Opening his eyes again, Dean nods, the bracing on his head making the movement almost imperceptible.

"Just a couple of days and you'll be as good as new," Sam continues. Dean knows his brother is moving into rambling mode. He always rambles when he gets nervous, and Sam is clearly nervous.

But right now it's a minor comfort in his utterly screwed up world. Sam is here with him; they're both safe. A little worse for wear, but definitely safe. Hospitals are safe. Adam and Lori Ann are..._shit! _They're still out there!

His eyes slam back open, round saucers latching onto Sam as his heart monitor starts to go berserk. He has to warn his brother. They're still out there. They could still come after them. Adam didn't exactly get what he had wanted, and Dean has no doubt the man will keep coming until he has won. Or is Dead.

At the sound of Dean's monitors shrieking, Sam immediately jumps to his feet and starts scrambling around the room in a panicky uproar. Not exactly the reaction Dean is hoping for. He needs Sam to look at him, needs him to focus on his lips and understand what he has to tell him.

Instead, Sam runs for the nurses station and grabs the first person he sees. It's Holly, who was already on her way in at the sound of the shrill alarms. "Dean, you need to calm down," Holly insists, placing her two soft hands on the sides of Dean's face, pulling him into her touch.

'_Danger,'_ Dean mouths, trying to convey his urgency through his eyes. He swallows against the tube in his throat, can feel the piping going down, and wishes like hell it wasn't there right now. _'Danger. Sam.'_

Holly doesn't seem to notice him trying to speak, never really looks down to see his lips moving before she's pulling out a syringe seemingly from thin air and feeding it into the port at the back of his hand. "This will help," she assures him as she gently massages his shoulder and his neck, trying to ease the tension within both.

Then Sam is back, swaying unsteadily on a protesting leg that never should have borne so much frantic weight in the first place, and he sets his enormous hand on Dean's forehead. Sammy's own forehead is wrinkled in confusion, unsure what it is that has gotten his brother so worked up in the first place.

'Sammy,' Dean mouths desperately, his eyes darting frantically back and forth as he works to get his brother to look at him. To look at his mouth.

The medicine in his IV is fast acting and he can already feel his brain going foggy. He has to tell Sam. NOW. He can't go to sleep without warning his baby brother. They're in danger. _Sam_ is in danger.

Dean blinks, trying to bring Sam's face back into focus as his vision starts to blur. He can see the concern in the tilt of his brother's head, but there's no sign that Sam is looking at his mouth - at least not one he can make out as the big picture fades in and out. It's now or never. He just has to hope Sam is watching.

'They got away, Sammy.'

"Wa? Eean, wa ow ooo sssaaayee?" Dean hears echoing back at him. He knows it's Sam's voice, but he doesn't know what it's saying. Has no clue whether it means 'I'll keep us safe,' or 'I don't understand.' All he knows is his time is up.

One more semblance of 'Danger,' passes over Dean's silent lips as his eyes finally shut closed for good, the drugs taking their final effects on his overtaxed body, forcing to make him lose his fight for consciousness. Leaving himself and Sam vulnerable.


	9. Chapter 9

**_And here we go on another run. Your reviews are greatly appreciated! Enjoy..._**

Doctors and Nurses alike try their damdest to convince Sam to leave once Dean is asleep, but Sam has seen the fear in his brother's eyes. He's not sure what Dean was trying to tell him, doesn't know if his fear is just the situation - being trapped, immobilized, in his body - or if there is more to it, but he knows better than to leave Dean to wake up alone.

After several wasted minutes of fruitless arguments, where Sam proves himself to be much stronger than his battered body makes him appear, the hospital staff finally agree to wheel a cot into Dean's room for Sam. He settles into it with a smirk, reminding them he's won. It is only after the brothers are finally alone and Sam is certain Dean is resting soundly that he allows himself to lie back into the cot with a soft groan of discomfort.

His throat is killing him, and the other injuries are issuing their own protests to be remembered and acknowledged. There really isn't a spot on his body that doesn't hurt, and he groans loudly at the immense pain he's in until another bittersweet realization hits him square on his mind. Dean's problem is the exact opposite of his. Dean can't feel a damn thing - no pain, no sore ribs, nothing. And suddenly his own problems seem pretty insignificant.

It's that thought that keeps Sam awake. The fear plagues him. He knows Dean will get better; even without the doctor's reassurances Sam knows Dean will be fine. Because he is Dean. But that doesn't stop the thought from entering Sam's mind that this could have been disastrous. One more millimeter, one more second, and Dean could have sealed his fate.

Sam can't possibly imagine what their life would be like. Of course they wouldn't be able to hunt anymore; if Dean's out of commission than clearly so is Sam. But that doesn't mean the big bad evils of this world won't still come after them. And then what would they do? How would Dean protect himself? They have really dodged a bullet on this one, and Sam can only think that next time they might not be so lucky.

* * *

Sam is still lying wide awake in bed thinking about his brother three and a half hours later when he's pulled from his thoughts by a hesitant knock at their open door. He turns slowly, trying to avoid re-aggravating any of his many injuries, and finally gets his gaze to the door just in time to see a blonde head of hair disappear from his view.

"Hello?" he calls nervously. He already knows it's not one of their nurses or doctors; they don't bother to knock. And they don't know anyone in this town, so he can't imagine who would be visiting them. Thoughts of Dean's fearful expression just before the sedative took effect stream back into Sam's thoughts, making him worry once more about what Dean wanted to tell him.

"Hello," he says again, louder, when there is no response to his first call. His senses are on alert now, spine tingling. He knows there is someone standing just outside their door. "Look, if you're gonna come in then do it. Otherwise get out of here."

The sound of someone clearing their throat infiltrates the air, echoing loudly among the sounds of beeping and whooshing. And then a soft voice floats into the room. "I don't mean to bother you, I just–"

She steps into the room, nervously wringing her hands in front of her as her eyes flit about the room, refusing to make contact with Sam's suddenly stunned face.

He recognizes the visitor. It's the doctor zombon. The one who hooked Dean up to that damn contraption in the first place. He doesn't know much about her, doesn't remember much about the half hour or so before their rescue, but he knows that she was somehow a part of this whole thing. He knows that she's partly responsible for his brother lying temporarily paralyzed in the bed beside him, dependent on a ventilator to breathe.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

She stops in her tracks, eyes falling to study her feet as she debates on her next move. The feet seem to shuffle. Forward. Backward. Where to go? What to do? It's obvious, despite her nervousness, that she hadn't expected that kind of a reaction from him. But Sam can't fathom what she might have expected.

"Well? Answer me," Sam demands. His voice comes out hoarse and raspy, not at all the usual timbre he exerts in his demands. But under the circumstances he's proud of the tone he's come up with.

"I– I, um."

"You, um, _what_? Don't you think you've caused my brother and me enough trouble already?"

Flinching as she takes a step backwards, the woman prepares to leave the way she came. And then changes her mind in the same instant. It's almost as though Sam can see her confidence return, and he, too, shrinks back, fearful of what is to come. He knows there is danger out there; Dean has shown him that much information. This could be the danger.

So the next words out of her mouth leave him speechless and confused.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry. For everything. Wanted to make sure you two were both okay."

Sam just stares at her, truly not expecting an apology of any sort, but certainly not one that sounds so...genuine. And with him in a stupefied silence, the woman has no choice but to continue her explanation. Her nervousness demands it.

"There were so many times that I wanted to help him. But it was like I was trapped. In my own body. I couldn't–" Fear plagues her eyes as she realizes what she's saying; who she's saying it to. She has no idea that Sam is a hunter any more than Sam knows what she did for Dean after he lost consciousness. In her mind she knows Sam must think her crazy.

Her sincerity has Sam melting, rethinking his position. He may not be happy with the events, but he at least owes it to her to hear her out. And maybe, if not for her, then for Dean. At the very least, Sam needs to know what went on while Dean was missing. "Go on," Sam pushes, finally finding his voice. "He can't talk yet, I don't know what happened."

"You wouldn't believe me. I don't even believe it; it– what happened, it's too surreal."

"You don't know what I do for a living," Sam rebuts. "There's nothing you can tell me that will sound too farfetched. Just try me. Start with your name; I don't know your name."

She chews her bottom lip, drawing a tiny pinpoint of blood almost immediately. Clearly the poor woman has been doing this a lot in the last few hours. Sam wonders just how many people she had to give her story too. How many lies she had to tell.

"Milla. I'm Milla Landly. I'm a doctor here on the neurology floor – well, I used to be anyway. But I'm not so sure now–"

"It's okay, Milla. We'll figure something out. Just tell me what happened. When Dean was awake a bit ago he seemed terrified of something, and I need to know what I'm dealing with so I can help him. Please, just start from the beginning."

Once Sam has relaxed, she relaxes too. There is a small, wooden backed chair in the corner and she slowly retrieves it as she begins to recount her captivity and Dean's torture.

"I was fully aware of what was going on; I had all my mental faculties about me. But I couldn't control my body. That guy - his name was Adam - he would just tell me to do something and I had no way to fight it. I had to do _exactly_ what he said."

Her emphasis on the word gives Sam pause, and he realizes it is probably significant; that she was clearly forced to do some terrible things that went against all reason. His chest clenches at the realization that he's about to find out exactly what happened to his brother for the two days he was missing. It doesn't escape his thoughts that he probably would never know what happened if it were left up to Dean to tell him, but the guilt only sits with him for a second before he turns his attention over to Milla. This is something he _has_ to know about. It's the stuff nightmares are made of. He's got to know how to help Dean through this.

She starts at the beginning, her beginning, a memory of feeling a pinprick in her neck and then waking up sometime later in the abandoned schoolhouse alongside the two nurses. She tells Sam about feeling distant, out of control of her own body, but she was fully aware of everything going on around her. At first, Adam demanded she fix him, repair the damage done to his spine. It had taken days, maybe more, to convey her inability to do so, and that's when Lori Ann had appeared with Dean.

They forced her to feed him a constant dose of neuroblocking drugs through his IV, specially mixed to give him just the right amount of sensation loss. At Adam's demands, Milla had been forced to prepare the 'patient' as though he had sustained the same injury Adam had.

During the first 'surgery,' just minutes after Dean was brought to the schoolhouse, Adam had demanded that she put the wire in his neck, around the spinal cord - insurance, he had called it. And he had ordered the halo screwed into his head to 'stabilize' his neck.

Sam had missed the halo brace on Dean's head, but he's noticed the resulting wounds, now he knows why. He cringes, feeling shame for Dean at the intrusion of privacy and personal space he'd experienced. Once again, Sam wonders if it is fair that he know this stuff when he is so certain Dean would never want him to know.

In deference to Dean's feelings, Sam rushes Milla forward in the story, asking her to tell him what had happened after he lost consciousness. How had they been rescued?

"That's just it," she says, shrugging her shoulders. She leans forward, lowers her voice a bit. "I don't know how we regained control. We had all three been fighting it for so long, but that still doesn't make any sense why we all snapped out of it at the same time. I just don't know."

She's right, it doesn't make any sense. Sam files the information away, promising to return to it soon, but for now he needs to know all she knows. They can deal with the unknowns later.

"That's all right, Milla. What happened after you came out of it?"

"I ran for Dean. He had just started to move forward, to- to activate the pulley and save you. I thought–" Tears rim her eyes and her hands shake.

Sam leans forward, reaching out a hand and settling it gently on her intertwined ones. "You thought what?"

"I thought that I might be able to get to him in time, that maybe I could save both of you. But," Milla's eyes roam desperately over Dean's still form in the next bed, but she refuses to look at Sam.

Squeezing her hands tighter, Sam's eyes soften. "You haven't spoken to anyone yet." It's a statement, not a question.

She shakes her head. "They wouldn't tell me anything. Patient confidentiality and all that. But I can see–"

"He's going to be okay. There's some swelling, that's all. But Dr. Prentiss assures me that he'll make a full recovery."

"So he's not–" The tears pooling in Milla's eyes finally spill over and her body quivers as relief encompasses her soul. "Oh, thank god."

As Sam watches her all remaining doubts disappear and he relaxes his body back against the pillows as he allows her to shed pent up emotions.

"I was so certain that Adam had won," she continues. "He was so powerful. And then when he disappeared after–"

"Wait, he what? He disappeared?" Immediately Sam's feeling of relaxation escapes him and he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention as his whole body tenses. Ignoring the multitude of pains screaming throughout his battered body, Sam swings his legs over the side of the bed and scoots closer to Milla, staring her dead center in the eyes. It's all he can do to stop himself from grabbing her collar and forcing the information from her.

"Y-yes," Milla stammers, suddenly feeling nervous in the hunter's presence. "I thought you knew."

Sam shakes his head, inching closer. His voice raises as his teeth clench tight. "You're telling me that Adam and Lori Ann are not currently locked away? They're still out there somewhere?"

She nods, lower lip trembling. "They sssomehow managed to escape in all the confusion of the rescue. They w-were gone by the time the police showed up."

"Damn it!" Sam is off the bed in a split second, taking no notice of the pain that shoots up his leg at the unwanted pressure. He makes it to Dean's bedside and grabs for the call button, frantically pressing the red button over and over again until Holly, the nurse from before, scuttles into the room in a frenzy of activity.

He doesn't even wait for her to cross the threshold before he's spewing demands. "They're still out there. How could you not tell me? He needs protection!"

"Honey, I don't know what you're talking about." Holly is noticeably confused by Sam's ranting, and she holds out her arms in a placating gesture, trying to get Sam to sit, to calm down.

"The people that did this to him! They're still out there. They got away!"

Holly's eyes widen and her hand goes to her mouth before she looks at her patient with sadness. "I had no idea, Sam. But I assure you, Dean is safe here. No one can hurt him while he's here."

"You don't know that."

"Sam, please, sit down." Milla is talking again, scooting her now vacated chair closer to where Sam is barely balanced on his feet. "Holly is right, Dean is safe within the walls of the hospital. There's plenty of security here."

He refuses the chair, but does take hold of the bed rail on the side of Dean's bed for support. "Oh yeah? Then how did they manage to get to you? The parking garage is still within the walls of the hospital, is it not?"

Milla flinches noticeably, but doesn't back down. Instead, she turns back to Holly. "Could you go get one of the security guards? Maybe they can work something out. Or they can coordinate with the police."

Holly nods and turns shakily on her heel, disappearing quickly out the door. "Did he know?" Sam demands, looking down at his brother and then back at Milla. He misses the flutter of Dean's eyes as the frenzy of the room starts to bring the older hunter back to consciousness. "Is that what he was trying to tell me before they sedated him?"

Nodding hesitantly, Milla offers more explanation. "He was conscious through the entire rescue effort. A little groggy, but awake. He knows."

* * *

Coming back from sedation is like wading through a thick fog in the dead of night. It's dark, dense, oppressive. Dean has to fight with everything he has to bring himself to the surface, to the light. But he's determined to do it. He can hear Sammy's voice, desperate and frantic, and knows he has to come back to him. It comes down to a simple case of need; Dean is the big brother, the protector, and right now Sam needs him.

His eyes open slowly, the crusty feel of sleep lingering in the corners. It is with a heavy sinking feeling that Dean remembers he lacks the ability to wipe away the crud and he blinks several times instead, trying to improvise.

The motion works enough to bring the room into blurry focus, and a few more tries has him able to make out the figures hovering near his bed. There are two; a man and a woman. He knows on instinct that the man is Sam, even before he can see his face.

The woman takes longer to place, and when he does his emotions linger on the border of fear and acceptance.

On the one hand, this is the woman who did the physical torment while he was held captive. Adam may have had the control, but she did the work. She drilled the holes and screwed the screws into his head. She cut the hole in his throat. She _gave_ him the drugs that kept him in the paralyzed state while he was there.

But rationally, he knows it was mind control. It's a laughable thing, because to anyone else _that_ would not be rational. But to Dean Winchester, with all the things he's seen and done, this is by far one of the least irrational things he's dealt with. Adam had her under his control; she didn't have a choice in the matter.

And in the end she did save him. That should count for something - right?

As he lies there, listening to Sam's anxious voice demand answers from the blonde doctor - answers about him - Dean wants nothing more than to be able to make a sound and get Sam's attention. He wants them to stop talking about him; wants Sam to stop asking questions about things Dean can't protect him from.

Sure, Sam needs to know about Adam and Lori Ann. He needs to be aware that they're still out there, that they might be coming after them. But he doesn't need to know all that other stuff. And Dean wants nothing more than to put a stop to the spewing of information. But he's reduced to waiting in silence, hoping that Sam will look over at him and see that he's awake.

Sam finally does look over on his way to running his hands through Dean's greasy, disheveled hair, and he does a double take before realizing that his older brother's eyes are wide open and staring pleadingly at him.

"Dean. You woke up."

Dean rolls his eyes at Sam. _No shit, Sherlock. Quite the genius you are._ And then points his gaze at the woman intruder in the room, the zombon doctor that helped to torture him.

"She's okay, Dean. This is Milla Landly. She came to check up on you, but she's not under Adam's control anymore. She's not going to hurt you."

Sam's assurances go a long way towards calming Dean down. He immediately feels comforted by the fact that he and Sam have spent so much time together. They know what each other is thinking and feeling without exchanging words – even if neither one ever wants to admit weaknesses out loud.

"I can't tell you how sorry I am about all of this," Milla says, leaning over the foot of Dean's bed and hovering just within his eyesight. "I tried to stop it, I really did. He was just too powerful."

_It's okay. Mind control is a bitch. _He blinks and bites on his lip, about the only thing he can think to do in the way of offering reassurances to the woman, and once again curses his inability to do much else.

Sam comes to the rescue yet again, reading Dean's mind and stepping over to console the upset doctor. "My brother wouldn't want you to blame yourself for this. He understands what it's like to not be in control."

"I just don't understand how Adam did it in the first place. And I don't know why neither one of you thinks I'm crazy. If it hadn't happened to me personally I know I wouldn't believe a word of what I've told you."

"You would be surprised the things we believe," Sam offers off-handedly. He quickly moves on, and Dean knows he's avoiding a conversation about the Winchester career path.

She chuckles nervously and brushes her bangs out of her eyes before clutching her purse in front of her. "Yeah, well, maybe you can accept it so easily, but I still need some time to process this. And I think the two of you need some time to talk."

It is quite a way to break from the conversation. Dean knows his brother, can see it in Sam's face that he's toying with the idea of making it an emo moment and encouraging her to stay with them and work out her feelings, her questions. But in the end Sam chooses to let her go, and he finally nods his head in agreement of her leaving.

"If you need to talk..." he starts, leaving the cue open-ended and welcoming.

Milla nods self-consciously, still playing with her hair with one hand. "Maybe I can stop in and check up on you two later?"

"Yeah. Yeah, that would be good."

She turns to Dean and puts out her hand, about to lay it on his shoulder, but stops just before she touches him when she sees the bit of a flinch in his face. He isn't quite ready to trust her yet.

Hand hovering just above Dean's shoulder she offers a pinched smile before curling her fingers tightly into a fist and pulling away. "You take care of yourself, Dean. I– I'm so sorry about all of this."

Dean flashes a lopsided smile back at the woman he's still unsure whether to call her his attacker or his savior, only able to provide that small bit of forgiveness for the time being.

Sam walks Milla to the door, thanks her for stopping by, and then immediately returns to Dean's side.

"Wellll," Sam begins nervously. Dean can well imagine Sam is feeling uncomfortable about talking. Neither one of them has ever been much for small talk or soul bearing conversation. But as serious a situation as they currently find themselves in Dean knows jokes are out of the question. It doesn't matter that on the surface Dean is screaming for Sam to make some stupid joke about laying down on the job, or the cat having his tongue. Underneath all of that even he has to admit that he's scared. Frustrated. Confused. And thank God he doesn't have the voice to admit that.

Locking eyes with the sad puppy dog eyes of his brother Dean can tell that Sam has to say something; silence was never his strong suit. So little brother forges on. "That was nice of her to stop by. She seems okay, I think."

Dean raises an eyebrow.

"I mean, I don't think she's quite had a chance to process it all," Sam amends. "It will probably hit her all at once, and then who knows how she'll react."

_Yeah, well, right now I'm not exactly concerned with how she's dealing with this. I've got bigger things to worry about. _

"She, uh, she told me about Adam. About how he and Lori Ann disappeared before the cops showed up. Is that," he sucks in a shuddering breath and leans closer to Dean, lowering his voice. "Is that what you were trying to tell me before? Is that what you were so upset about?"

Dean squeezes his eyes shut tight and mouths 'yes' at the same time. _God, yes, Sammy. They could come back at any time._

"I'm not going to let them hurt you," Sam says. "I know this has to be hard for you not being able to…" his voice trails off as Dean widens his eyes. _Don't say it, Sam. _They both know what is going on physically with Dean right now, but saying it will make it real. No matter how long or short a time this will affect him, Dean doesn't want to talk about it.

"Just know that you're safe," Sam finally settles on. "You're safe and I'm going to take care of you until you're back on your feet."

_Like hell you are, Sam. I'm not letting you be some nursemaid to my frozen ass. We'll figure this out._ Dean swallows against the dull pain of tubing in his throat. He loathes the feel of it, and more than that, despises the fact that it could have been prevented. All of this could have been prevented if he'd just paid more attention, been more prepared.

Dean wants to berate Sam for even thinking about talking the way he is, wants to reach out and slap his idiot little brother. But he can't. And it's beyond frustrating. How do you communicate with just eyes and lips, without sound? How can he reassure his little brother that he's not alone when he can't even voice the words?

'I'm okay,' Dean finally mouths when Sam looks at him.

"No, you're not. Not this time." Sam protests. "You're far from it, Dean. Damn it, you are so blasted stubborn. I'm not leaving your side. Not with Adam and Lori Ann still out there somewhere."

_I don't want you to leave. Just don't want you wiping my ass and giving me a sponge bath. That's what hot nurses are for._ Outwardly, Dean smirks, putting on his game face.

"Dean, I've seen the nurses on this floor," Sam says, reading his brother like an open book. "They're nice enough, but at least twice your age. You're going to be extremely disappointed."

A frown quickly replaces the smile Dean had worked so hard to conjure up as he blatantly pouts at his poor luck.

"This is total crap, Dean. I can see right through you. Stop trying to be big and strong. It's my turn for a change. Do you have any idea what I went through trying to find you?"

_And here we go. I knew emo Sam would make an appearance sooner or later. And me with no defense for my poor sensitive ears. _Narrowing his eyes, Dean realizes he has no choice but to hear Sam out. It's impossible to relax but he at least tries to focus, telling himself that the least he can do is internalize what Sam has to say so that he can reply when he's finally able to do so. Sooner or later he'll be able to have his own chance to talk.

* * *

Long after every other patient on his ward has gone to sleep Dean lies wide awake in his bed listening to the soft sounds of the nurses shoes, their hushed whispers at the station just a little ways from his door. He can hear the subtle snores emanating from his brother's sleeping form on the bed next to him. By his ear, Dean can make out the gentle whoosh of the ventilator still keeping him alive and breathing, and the steady beep beep beep of the heart monitor.

With his head immobilized, the only things in Dean's line of sight are the yellowed ceiling tiles dotted with little black holes, illuminated only by the dim glow of the light over his bed. He has already counted the holes twice, coming up with three thousand seven hundred and twenty four on the first count and three thousand six hundred and eighty seven on the second. Now he is just starting on the third count as he furtively fights the draw of sleep that beckons him.

If Sam was awake Dean would have gladly given in to the pull, but Sam returned to his bed just after dinner, on Doctor's orders, and has ended up falling asleep. Even if Dean had the means to wake his little brother he doesn't have the heart to do so, instead forcing himself to stay awake and keep watch. He is reluctant to admit his uselessness, though deep down he knows there is nothing he can do to protect either himself or Sam.

The ward is quiet, almost eerily so, and he finds himself continuously having to blink his eyes in an effort to stay awake. It is getting more and more difficult to fight it and Dean begins to get lost in the hazy abyss that signifies the halfway point between awake and asleep.

Sometime later, he jumps back to full alert as an alarm sounds down the hall and the soft footsteps became frantic and heavy. His eyes spring open, nostrils flaring, hearing on full alert. Sam doesn't stir beside him, lost somewhere in the dark void of heavy sleep.

He strains his available senses, wishing he could hold his breath and stop the heart monitor to enhance his hearing. Just out of reach are the frantic voices of the hospital staff responding to the emergency down the hall. His focus is so deep on hearing what they're saying that he completely misses the soft whirring of a wheelchair and light tapping of a pair of rubber soled shoes as Adam and Lori Ann make their way into his room.


	10. Chapter 10

**_Hey all - I'm sorry this is late. And I'm sorry I haven't responded to any of you wonderful reviewers. Honestly, I haven't been near my computer much these last couple of days, and it is all I could do to _read_ the reviews. I am extremely grateful to each and every one of you who took the time to drop a line, though. And even for you lurkers - thank you for reading! I'm posting this morning and then heading out to have my wisdom teeth removed. OUCH!!! Could very well lead to yet another story...hmmmmm. That is, of course, providing that I'm still as wise as I am now. Haha - ok, bad pun. yeah yeah yeah. Anyway, enjoy the chapter. After this, all that's left is an Epilogue. I can't believe we're nearly through! _**

Dean is so deeply focused on the sounds of frenzy down the hall that he completely misses the entrance Adam and Lori Ann make into his hospital room. By the time he's aware, Lori Ann is standing directly over his bed, hand on its way down to his forehead as she flashes an evil grin in his direction.

"Hello, Dean," She sing-songs. as her fingers drift to his hair, gently stroking his bangs back as she smirks patronizingly. "You're a hard man to reach, you know that?"

He gulps, while inside he's screaming. _Sammy! You've got to wake up. Get up Sam!_

"What's a matter, Deam? Got nothing to say?"

'You bitch," he mouths.

She tsks at him without missing a beat, lips pursed as she looks down pityingly. "Is that any way to talk to the woman who's holding your life in her hands?"

Suddenly Dean catches a glimpse of the electrical cord Lori Ann is fingering as she lifts it high enough to fall in his line of sight. For all he knows the cord could be attached to a vacuum or a lamp, but his gut tells him it's the ventilator. One tug and he's as good as dead.

'What do you want?'

"Dean, Dean, Dean," she sings. "We just came to check on you, see how you're doing after such a traumatic experience. We were worried about you."

'Like hell you were.'

"Adam can tell you, it's terrifying having the doctors tell you you'll never walk again. Isn't that right sweetheart?"

_They don't know,_ Dean realizes. Instantly he strengthens his poker face, determined not to let slip his little secret. They didn't finish the job they'd set out to do, and there is no way he is willing to allow them another opportunity.

"If you want to talk–" Adam says, voice mocking as he gears up his wheelchair and moves closer to Dean.

'Fuck You!' Dean mouths forcefully, though he knows Adam can't see his lips any more than he can see Adam's face.

But Lori Ann can, and she sets off on another round of tsks as though it's her God-given right to scold him. "Is that any way to talk to the people who have come to help you? We know what you're going through, Dean. We just want to talk. Come on, baby, let it out."

_Sammy please, you have to wake up. I can't do this on my own. I admit it, okay? I need help!_ Dean can feel the veins on his forehead begin to pop as his head trembles. He can still see Lori Ann holding onto the electrical cord and he swallows against the tubing in his throat, knowing full well that each breath it feeds him could be his last.

Squeezing his eyes shut tight Dean works with the tension building up in what little bit of his body he has control over. He wills it to move, to spread out, fervently trying to osmose some feeling and movement back into his extremities. There is only one way out of this, and that is to call for help before the two lunatics at his bedside have a chance to finish him off.

"Adam tried that, too." Lori Ann says in a hushed whisper. He can feel her hot breath tickling the inside of his ear and he mentally cringes. "It doesn't matter how much willpower you have, Dean. It's not going to give you your life back. This _is_ your life now. Deal with it."

Her words stop Dean cold, sending chills down a back that refuses to respond to his pleas. He keeps his eyes shut, but loosens the pressure he's been applying as more questions come into play. _If they don't know this isn't permanent, if they aren't here to finish the job, then why did they risk getting caught to come here?_

'What do you want?'

"We want what any victim wants, Dean. We want to see you face the same torment you forced Adam to face. We want to watch as you learn your fate, as you deal with the idea of a future trapped inside your body. We want to experience your pain when you finally realize that this is it for you."

'I will be OK' Dean insists, finally springing his eyes back open and locking them onto the bitch in front of him. He matches her stare, cold, steely gaze to cold, steely gaze.

For a second Lori Ann seems to shrink back at the hatred and determination Dean conveys, but soon she is back in the game, taunting him with the same ferocity Adam had managed to muster through the intercom system. She lets out an explosive snort and then reins it in before her voice can wake Sam.

"I've done my research on you, Dean Winchester. I know who you are, what you're about. You and I both know you can no more live without control of your body than a fish can live without water. It. Is. Who. You. Are."

Dean forces himself not to flinch at the truth of her statement, reminding himself that this isn't permanent. He will walk again. Soon. 'I have Sam.'

"Sam? That's so sweet." She breaks contact with Dean to look at Adam for a minute. "He honestly thinks that Sam is going to stick with him through this."

'He will,' Dean insists when Lori Ann finally looks back in his direction.

"He's left you for less, Dean. If he couldn't handle the strain of being trapped in a lifestyle that he _grew up_ in, what makes you think he will be able to handle caring for you for the rest of his life. He want's more, Dean. You know that just as well as I do. He will leave you again."

Tears spring to Dean's eyes, and no matter how hard he tries to force them down he can't make them stop. Lori Ann and Adam may not have managed to permanently cripple him, but that doesn't mean they didn't make him face his lack of indestructibility. Continuing on with the lifestyle he's chosen means facing the possibility every day that he might not come out of a hunt whole. Anything could happen, at any time. And where would that leave him?

"Leaving was the biggest mistake I've ever made in my life," interrupts the angry, slightly scratchy voice of Dean's savior, Sam, just before he hears a tinny crash. Lori Ann disappears from his line of vision followed quickly by a heavy thud. And suddenly his chest compresses in on him as all the air leaves his lungs.

* * *

The hollow echos of voices are more a nuisance than alarming as Sam floats in dreamland. He's never been one to dream happy dreams, but the drugs flowing through his system have at least allowed him a reprieve from his standard nightmares. Right now he is just wandering through a vast expanse of colors, smeared and swirled as though on an artists canvas. In the background soft music plays and he feels at peace.

As the voices begin to drift into his dream he aches to close them out but takes comfort in their kindness all the same. –_check on you–worried–sweetheart–want to talk_–_Face the same torment– _

Suddenly fear grips the outer edges of Sam's awareness as the strength in the words gives way to the emotion and he realizes there is more going on than simply an intrusion into his dreamworld. He struggles to break free of the drugs that hold him hostage in sleep. _Something is wrong. Dean!_

–_He honestly thinks that Sam is going to stick with him through this_–

Those words finally bring Sam back from the brink. In an instant Sam recognizes that voice, and he knows Dean is not safe. His eyes spring open as he fights with himself to not move, to not call attention to the fact that he is now awake. Somehow he has to get from the bed over to Lori Ann without being detected - he's too weak himself to risk giving away the advantage.

Slowly, painfully, Sam rolls himself onto his side to better see the positioning around the room. Both Adam and Lori Ann have their backs to him as they hover over his brother. His _helpless_ brother. He allows himself the fleeting question of _How the hell did they get past the nurses_? But that's neither here nor there at the moment. Knowing the answer to that is not going to get them out of this situation.

_He's left you for less, Dean_.

Sam sees red. Blood flows to his ears in a cacophony of sound as he fights both his emotions and his physical pain to climb steadily, silently, to his feet. The next thing he hears is Lori Ann once again, announcing _He will leave you again_, and he's on his feet, metal bedpan gripped tightly in his white knuckled grip.

"Leaving was the biggest mistake I've ever made in my life," he growls, raising the bedpan up at the same time. Before Sam even realizes what he's doing he feels the jolt up his arm as the metal pan makes contact with the side of Lori Ann's head. She falls to the ground in a silent heap, lax limbs splaying out around her in a jumbled mess. In her hand, still clutched tightly despite unconsciousness, is a black electric cord.

Allowed only a second to wonder where the cord came from, Sam soon hears a low growl and before he can recover feels something slam into his knees and he's knocked off of his feet.

The pain that travels through his already damaged knee is so intense Sam can't even make a sound save for a low whimper. Dark spots dance in front of his eyes and for a minute his vision goes completely black as nausea threatens his composure.

When he's finally able to open his eyes and focus on the situation Sam comes face to face with a seething Adam hovering over him, wheelchair resting over top of his feet and ankles. Sam tries to get up, makes a noble attempt at crab-walking backwards, but one of the wheels has his pant leg trapped underneath it, and the bulky knee immobilizer has the rest of the material trapped around his leg. The combination has him effectively pinned, and he lacks the strength in that leg to pull hard enough to break free.

"What the hell do you want?" Sam demands through gritted teeth, a fire in his eyes that only comes out in desperate situations. He's in pain, he's pissed, he's worried about Dean, and there is no greater enemy.

Adam laughs wickedly. "What do I _want_? I want my life back. I want to wake up and find this whole thing has been a nightmare. I want you and your brother to have never butted into my life. I _want_ revenge." He moves the wheelchair forward another inch.

The footrests grind against Sam's ankles, and he has to bite his tongue to keep the cry of pain at bay. But he's seen something else as the chair moves forward and he's not about to do anything to ruin his good fortune. The fabric is now free of the wheel, and if he can just gently, subtly, maneuver his feet back out from under the chair he'll be free.

"Look, I'm sorry that we invaded your life," Sam says, breaking out his infamous puppy dog eyes for good measure. He shoots a desperate look to their closed door, wondering futilely _where the hell is the hospital staff? Have they not heard the commotion in our room? _

At the very least it works to distract Adam from his feet as the assailant reads Sam's thoughts. "They're not coming, Sam. You'd be surprised at the activity on this wing. It's been a very busy night. Strangest thing, really. Two kids coded just before we came in - such a shame, really. They both had such bright futures."

"You bastard," Sam hisses, twisting around for another look at the door, as though he might be able to see something through the thick wood. As he strains, he can finally hear the commotion down the hall. The alarms shrieking. Voices yelling. "They didn't do anything to you!"

"It's called collateral damage, Sam. Some things just can't be avoided."

Finally untangled, Sam springs to his feet with much more agility than he should have been capable of. He launches himself at Adam, shoving both man and chair backwards until they collide with the wall. The sip and puff straw Adam uses to propel himself around is knocked out of his way, effectively suspending his ability to fight back.

"I'll kill you," Sam screams, fist raised and ready to strike.

Adam just smiles, seemingly unfazed by the ferocity of Sam's actions. "No you won't," he says, the smugness clear in his voice as Sam falters.

Fist still raised, but loosening and clearly less lethal, Sam spits out, "What makes you so sure?"

"You don't have it in you to kill. Besides, I think your brother needs you more. You'd better get over there if you're going to be of any use."

Taking a double take, Sam finally notices the frantic expression on Dean's face and the blue pallor to his lips. "Dean!"

* * *

As soon as Lori Ann goes down Dean knows he's in trouble. He can instantly feel the oxygen cease to flow to his lungs, doesn't even have to hear the machine power down to know she has pulled the plug on his life source. A shrill alarm sounds, mocking his predicament.

_Sammy! Sam please!_ There is nothing he can do as he flounders like a fish out of water, gulping and gasping for a breath of air he knows won't come. His lungs have shut down, betrayed him, and he knows without a doubt that this is the way he will die. Trapped, helpless, unable to call for help or save himself. The outlet is just inches from his head, yet he lacks the power to replace the plug back in the socket.

Little colored dots begin to dance in front of his eyes, red and yellow and black. He can feel his forehead and cheeks begin to tingle as more and more air escapes from his body without being replaced.

It feels as though an elephant is sitting on his chest, suffocating him, closing off all means of survival. He gulps against the tube in his throat, tries to scream. Tears flow from his eyes, unintentional yet no less significant.

_This isn't right. This isn't fair! I can't die like this. Someone help me, please._

All of his senses cease to exist as Dean fights for air. Sight, sound, time. He knows nothing but the pure agony of knowing he's slowly suffocating to death and no one seems to care.

And then someone does care. He has no idea how long it's been, feels like a lifetime, before Sam is finally hovering overtop of him. For once the emo expression is welcome and Dean stops fighting, giving himself and his fate fully over to Sam.

Almost instantly, Sam's hands are at his neck, messing with the still tender hole and the tubing shoved into it, frantically trying to figure out the problem. Any other situation Dean would accept the idea that maybe Sam still had drugs running through his system and he'd been wrenched from a fitful sleep to come into this fight, so maybe he is a little confused and not running on all eight cylinders. _But damn it, dying here_! Dean doesn't have time to wait for Sam to figure it out. He needs him to look up. NOW.

When the cards down and everything is laid out on the table the Winchester brother's work like a well-oiled machine, reading each other in a language no one else understands. This situation is no different.

It's as though Dean actually gets inside Sam's head with his own thoughts, his desperation for little brother to look at him in his final seconds before darkness swallows him up. _The plug!_ Dean mouths, practically delirious with oxygen deprivation. He knows his eyes are rolling around in their sockets, unable to focus on anything. He can only hope the message got through as he finally slips under, no longer able to hold onto consciousness with so little oxygen traveling through his body.

* * *

Sam has never been good at reading lips, he's never really had cause to learn before, but somehow the barely perceptible movement of his brother's blue lips gets across the fact that the plug's been pulled. The plug that he'd registered only for a split second in Lori Ann's hand before Adam had taken him down.

He drops to the ground, adrenaline masking the agony his body must be in, and grabs the plug from Lori Ann's limp hand. He's back on his feet in an instant, lurching for the outlet and already aiming for the slots before he's close enough to plug it in.

Immediately the ventilator springs back to life and he looks back to see Dean's chest begin, once again, to rise and fall in a steady motion as air is pushed back into his lungs. Sam limps back to his brother's side, hands on either side of Dean's cheeks as he taps him lightly to wake up.

An eternity passes before Dean's eyes flutter back open and he brings unfocused eyes to latch on Sam's.

'Sammy?'

"Yeah, bro, it's me. You're safe now. Don't ever do that to me again."

'Wouldn't think of it.'

Sam chuckles and discreetly wipes away a few tears that have chosen to make an appearance. "You back with me now?"

'Sure am. Not going anywhere.'

"Alright, good. I've got to take care of these two. I'll be back, I promise. You gonna be okay for a minute?"

'Yep.' _Nope_.

"Okay, I'll be right ba–"

Dean's eyes widen in warning just a second before Sam's words are cut short. He hears the air rushing at him and turns just in time to be treated to the bedpan slamming into his face. And he goes down.

_

* * *

Fuck. Sam!_ The precious feelings of air rushing into his lungs and Sam standing safely in front of him are short lived. Panic quickly sets in as Dean watches Sam disappear from his vision to be quickly replaced by Lori Ann. 

A deep bruise mars her temple, and a goose egg sized bump has already formed. She looks at Dean with crazy eyes, hatred oozing from the dilated pupils. If there had been any likelihood of talking her down before, Dean knows it's all over now.

His eyes drift over the objects within his limited vision, realizing that it's up to him to save both himself and Sam or they will both die.

Lori Ann launches herself at him, finger nails slashing and clawing at his face and neck. She knows what she's doing, knows it's pointless to inflict pain anywhere below that or he wouldn't feel it anyway. One hand grabs at Dean's hair, yanking and tugging, as the other pushes against his cheek.

A thumb finds its way near Dean's mouth and he takes his limited advantage, clamping down as hard as he can with his molars. He hears a crunch, a scream, and tastes the coppery tang of blood as it fills his mouth.

Lori Ann yanks her thumb from his mouth and clamps onto it with her other hand as she turns to Adam. "Fucking bastard bit me."

Wanting to gag, but knowing how dangerous that is for him, Dean pushes down the need and simply takes pleasure in the fact that he's bought himself some time.

He looks around again and finally sees the call button for the nurses station laying just inches from his right hand. They had set it in his hand earlier in the day under the guise that he could use it when the swelling began to reduce, and cruelly mocking the fact that, at the time, he couldn't use it despite its location. It has slipped out in the activity of the evening and is now in an even more out of reach location.

Yet Dean also knows it's his only chance. There is no other choice. He absolutely _must_ get to that button. His life depends on it. _Sam's_ life depends on it.

Putting forth every iota of determination in his mind and body Dean strains to make his hand move as he'd done before in the old school. He knows he will do it, because there is no other option. Sam is his responsibility, his livelihood is his job. He can't fail his little brother.

And then Lori Ann is back on top of him, finger still seeping blood and now staining the side of Dean's cheek. She goes right back to yanking at his hair, screaming in his face. Her breath falls hot and rancid against his nose. Spittle lands on his face, across his nose and cheeks, and he has to repress the need to wipe it away knowing he can't do it.

He's really not paying too much attention to what Lori Ann is doing to him, instead focusing solely on the task at hand. To his disbelief, seconds later his right index finger twitches. And then again.

Renewed hope and determination lead him to fight harder to make the fingers move. Two more fingers follow suit at his forced beckoning. At the same time, Lori Ann lashes out with a fist to his temple. He has to pause for a minute to allow his vision to come back to him, but soon he's redoubling his efforts to get to the call button.

Using the motion that has returned to him, Dean inches his fingers towards the call button, his hand following by default. He hides the grin that begs to make an appearance on his face, afraid it might tip Lori Ann off to his intentions. He's close. The button is just barely out of reach as he feels Lori Ann dig a trench down the side of his face with her nails.

Dean bites on his lip, drawing the pain to one central location, and strains to make those last few millimeters count. Finally his efforts pay off. His index finger slips into place, flicking against the red button just enough to depress it.

Over his bed a light goes on, indicating that the call has been sent. He holds on as long as he can, knowing that an alarm sounds for the length of the depression, and the more insistent he is on the call the quicker someone will come. He can only hope that someone has made it back to the nurses station to see the call come in.

Lori Ann lashes out again, flat palm swiping across Dean's cheek and sending his entire head to the right. He feels the trach shift in his throat, feels pain lance out at the incision. Instantly he's on alert, waiting for the feel of his lungs being deprived of oxygen once again. It's a feeling he's not eager to relive, but it seems inevitable. He's certain something has just been knocked loose.

So he's surprised when not only is he still breathing minutes later but he also hears the door to the room opening and a cry of shock as Lori Ann is pulled off of him. There are time gaps in his memory as the adrenaline in his system finally depletes. He remembers sounds of shouting and security removing Adam and Lori Ann from the room, remembers someone helping an unsteady Sam to his feet, a doctor hovering over him checking his stats and all the leads and making sure that nothing else would fail.

After that he doesn't remember anything for hours. When he wakes up again the sun is shining, he's on his side facing the door, and Sam is back at his post beside his bed, boring holes into his forehead. Sam is sporting a swollen nose and a black eye from its meeting with the bedpan, and his knee is propped up on a stool with an ice pack on top, but is otherwise no worse for wear.

'Sammy?' he mouths groggily, still trying to wade through the fog of medication and concussion.

"Yeah, Dean. I'm here." Sam scoots closer, narrowing the gap between himself and Dean. "Adam and Lori Ann are taken care of - they're in jail. And you, you saved both our butts last night." He laughs in disbelief, pushing his hair out of his eyes. "I don't know how you did it bro, but somehow you managed to get to the call button and get the nurses in here. She was about to kill you, she damn near did..."

'I'm still here.' Chick flick moments have never been Dean's forte, he avoids them with a passion, but he still finds the need to comfort Sam. And something his little brother has said brings a new thought to mind. His hand. Last night, he moved his hand.

Dean looks down and focuses on his right hand, willing the movement to make a second showing. He's not disappointed as all five digits on his hand curl slowly inward, proving to him that recovery is fast on its way.

Looking back up Dean sees Sam beaming at him, about ready to burst at t he success. Dean can't help but grin back. Things are finally looking up for them. And they have some celebrating to do.


	11. Chapter 11

**_Alright guys, it's been a great ride and we're finally at the end of this story. I can't thank you all enough for coming on this journey with me. You're all awesome. So I'm posting this tonight, and then will have to head out to go finish another story before I can come back. At the end of this chapter I will have a poll regarding which of several stories I should post - so make sure to put in your vote. _**

**_I'm not usually one to brag, but I have to add another note because this is just too cool not to. For those of you Extreme Home Makeover fans (what can I say, I've got to watch something the other 6 days out of the week), Ty Treadway and the EHM team is about 20 minutes away from my house if Fairmont, WV working on another house. I'll be heading out there either tomorrow or Tuesday to help with the landscaping! And this episode will air sometime this season. So if any of you watch the show, think of me when it airs! Not that you'll know who I am, but I just may be one of the 1500 people you see on the screen!_**

**_Okay, now I'm done. Thanks so much for reading, and enjoy the epilogue..._**

Three days pass before Dean is finally breathing on his own well enough to warrant removing him from the ventilator. They take him back into surgery, leaving Sam behind to worry himself sick, and return him a few hours later. He's groggy and disoriented, but awake, and he smiles drunkenly at Sam while fingering the white square of gauze on his throat with uncoordinated fingers.

It is the first time Sam has seen Dean smile since Adam and Lori Ann were arrested and removed from their hospital room.

He is slowly recovering, physically. Every day more swelling subsides and more ability returns. At day three, on top of breathing on his own, he has gross movement pretty much down pat on his arms. And he can sit up on his own if he's propped up by pillows and the raised head of the hospital bed. Nothing yet in the legs, but the doctors and nurses assure them that they aren't far behind.

Fine motor skills are returning at a much slower pace. His hands don't want to grip anything tightly, and any attempts at feeding himself, so far, have resulted in spilled soup down his hospital gown and oatmeal on his cheek.

Sam seems to find a mantra in telling Dean "Don't get frustrated. You're getting better every day," but the words never seem to find a landing spot in Dean's thoughts. They float right past, make no dent in the steely armor Dean has erected around his emotions.

It's as though Dean used up all of his reserves fighting Adam and Lori Ann. The snideness and determination that typically make up the Dean Winchester persona are no longer there, having been replaced by an empty shell of a man. He hasn't tried to talk since his captors were hauled away. And he won't look Sam in the eye.

Sam knows some heavy shit went down with his brother. He knows that he's missing chunks of important information that might help him to pull his brother from his funk. But he also knows Dean doesn't want him to know all of that stuff, and there is a part of Sam that doesn't want to find out.

He's happy being sheltered and protected from his big brother. There is so much in their lives that he hasn't been protected from, so much that they know so that they can protect the rest of the world. And Sam doesn't want to open himself up to more hurt, more pain. He doesn't want to know that people can be just as evil as demons, that even though they exorcized the demon from Adam over six months ago his own twisted psyche was equally as brutal, if not more so.

But they have clearly broken something in his brother. Right now Dean is simply going through the motions, putting on a brave face to protect Sam from a truth too dark and disturbing even for their screwed up lives. And he's not even doing a very good job at that.

Sam knows without a doubt that he needs to get Dean to talk about what happened to him, but two days later, when Dean finally gets movement back in his feet and legs, they still haven't talked. It's not that Sam hasn't tried, just that Dean has tried harder to keep quiet.

* * *

Once Adam and Lori Ann have been arrested and all the craziness that accompanies being attacked in your hospital room by two kidnaping psychos has passed, Dean suddenly discovers that it's not so bad being stuck on a ventilator, unable to talk, unable to move. Once he gets past the obvious frustrations that come from being helpless, Dean discovers that his helplessness means Sam does all the talking. It means he isn't expected to bare his soul to his little brother. It means he can retreat into himself and try to forget all the indignities that have fallen upon him.

But then the swelling begins to subside and the ventilator comes out, and suddenly Sam goes all emo and psychotherapist on him. Suddenly Sam is at his side hour after hour, no longer talking his ear off about meaningless topics just to pass the time, but rather begging him to open up and share what happened to him.

At first it isn't too difficult to stonewall Sam. Dean's groggy from the anesthetic and the surgery, and it really hurts to talk. When he does try to say anything his voice comes out raspy and squeaky, and he can see the way the sound makes Sam wince. It's enough to keep Sam off his back for a couple of days, but soon even that isn't doing the trick.

Once Dean begins to get movement back in his legs and they start dragging him down to the physical therapy wing twice a day Sam seems to up his determination at getting Dean to talk. The younger hunter hounds him hour after hour, pleading that he tell Sam what is on his mind - what the hell happened to him.

And Dean is equally insistent not to say anything. _How do you tell your little brother that you've been violated? That there's no worse feeling than being helpless and aware while someone messes with you and slices you open? He won't understand. He can't. _

Dean comes to look forward to his PT sessions, if for no other reason than the fact that it's a reprieve from Sam. No obnoxious, emo-seeking little brother's allowed.

The thing is, he _wants_ to talk to Sam. He wants to tell him how scared he was. How unbelievably terrifying a situation it was being held captive by an unknown assailant. Being tortured and violated. Not knowing if the same thing was happening to Sam.

But years have been spent carefully erecting a wall that nothing can penetrate, strategically teaching himself how to be strong and withdrawn so that he could protect what is most near and dear to his heart. Those barriers are not easily destroyed, even by the architect. And even more, Dean isn't sure he's capable of building them back up once he's torn them down. It's all or nothing right now. And Sam needs him. The world needs him. So he has to be strong.

* * *

Sam has the distinct privilege of being at the top of a very exclusive list of people who have ever seen Dean Winchester vulnerable, seen the wall begin to crumble. And even then, he knows that he has only breached the surface of the complexities that comprise his brother's innermost thoughts. He knows now that he's seeing more than he ever hoped to see, and yet it is still barely anything.

His brother is hurting, that much Sam can see. And he's putting far too much effort into hiding it from Sam and the doctors and the nurses, and not nearly enough effort into getting past it.

They send a counselor in to talk to Dean one day, but Dean refuses to say anything more than "I'm fine, please leave me be," over and over again in that airy, strained voice that now comes out because of the hole in his throat. The sound makes Sam shudder, forces him to remember the trach that had been so cruelly carved into his brother's throat.

And it isn't even so much _what _Dean is saying to the counselor as it is how he says it. Sam knows his brother well enough to distinguish between a weak voice and a weak heart. Dean's heart just isn't into the getting better. There is barely any emotion behind the request for the man to leave. Sam can see it in Dean's eyes, the indifference, the futility. He's given up.

Most of the time when they come to take Dean down to Physical Therapy Sam just sits in his chair beside Dean's bed and watches, frozen to the spot. The first several therapy efforts have been performed from within Dean's hospital bed, and five days pass before they feel that Dean is capable of leaving the room.

Dean still isn't physically up to doing much on his own, and certainly can't hold his own body weight yet. His legs are like cooked spaghetti, arms only slightly stronger, and the therapist does all the work to get Dean out of bed and into the waiting wheelchair while Dean watches Sam with haunted eyes that beg for a reprieve from himself, from Sam, from the world.

"Do you want me to come with you?" Sam asks on the third day of therapy. He looks pleadingly at his brother, settled into the chair, velcro straps around his chest and legs keeping him secure and upright.

Dean shakes his head 'no,' but refuses to make eye contact with his little brother. He still won't speak unless he has no other choice.

"I'll bet your brother is just waiting until the day he can walk to you on his own before he shows you his improvements," Hank, the burly PT, says to Sam in a jovial voice that makes the younger Winchester wonder if the man has any idea what Dean has been through.

Sam nods, thanks the man in a low whisper, and then tells Dean, "I'll be here waiting for you when you get back. You just focus on getting better." It's a loaded request, one that makes Dean noticeably flinch, and Sam feels instant regret at having said it. Dean is trying, he knows he is. But it's so hard to watch his brother simply going through the motions. There is so much more to Dean that is now lost, and Sam doesn't know how to get it back.

Curiosity gets the better of Sam as he watches Hank push his brother out the door. Dean won't talk to him, and Sam hasn't had a chance to talk to anyone without Dean being present, which means he doesn't know just how much progress his brother is making. But instead of continuing to remain in the dark, Sam waits just long enough for Dean and Hank to be out of sight before pushing himself up on his crutches and sneaking out of the room in search of the PT wing.

There is a room just before the main gym that is reserved for viewing the patients inside. The seats are on risers to ensure a good view for everyone, and there is a large glass window that separates the small room from the exercise facility. There is no one else in there, and Sam slips in and finds himself a seat that gives him full view of the room but where, he hopes, Dean won't be able to see him.

At first, Sam can't find Dean, and his heart jumps in his throat thinking maybe they turned around and are back in the hospital room trying to figure out where Sam got off too. But then he's there, being pushed out of another room by Hank.

There are metal braces on both legs, spanning from his thighs all the way down to the bottoms of his feet. And more braces on his wrists. Sam lets out a bit of a chuckle as he thinks about how much his brother looks like the bionic man in that get up, but then immediately gets serious again when he realizes Dean wouldn't find it very funny. Not right now, anyway.

Hank guides the wheelchair to one of the sets of parallel bars on the far side of the room and brings it to a stop at one end. Sam holds his breath, knee bouncing erratically, as he waits for what is to come next. He sees Hank brace himself in front of Dean, arms wrapped tightly around Dean's chest. He watches his brother nod with conviction as he brings his own toddler weak arms up to wrap around Hank's neck. And then Dean is up, wobbling on unsteady legs, as he fights to gain some semblance of balance.

Far too much time passes between Dean's rise to his feet and any show of stability. Sam doesn't breathe in that entire span, only exhaling once he sees his brother release his hold on Hank's neck, hands dropping to his side to grip the two bars on either side of his hips.

And then Sam's breath hitches for another reason as he watches a hint of a smile light up on his brother's face, clearly feeling a sense of accomplishment. That small bit of a smile is the first emotion he's seen on Dean's face since Adam and Lori Ann, and it launches a whole new set of emotions inside of Sam's already confused mind as he begins to doubt his own capabilities as a brother, as a confidant.

He's been nothing but patient with Dean, knowing it can't be easy to deal with what he's been through. Sam wants his brother to talk to him, now more than ever before, but he has purposely backed off on the number of times he's pleaded with Dean to open up. He's asked maybe once for every ten times he's wanted to do so, but Dean has made it more than clear that even that is far too many times to ask. He doesn't want to talk.

_So where the hell does that buffoon of a therapist get off making Dean smile? What's he done that I can't do?_

Sam knows the answer to his questions even as he asks them, but it's a truth that's hard to swallow. And even harder to achieve. Hank can get Dean to smile because he's not pushing him to relive a nightmare that no person should have to live in the first place. He's treating Dean as though nothing has happened, focusing only on getting the young hunter back on his feet and out doing what he does best. He's letting Dean be Dean.

And Sam isn't.

In all the years the Winchester's have traveled back and forth across the country, saving people, hunting things, the family business, there has always been one constant in Sam's life. Dean.

Dean watches out for Sam when no one else does. Dean protects his family above all else. Dean keeps his own emotions in check, repressing them to the farthest voids of his mind in order to focus whole-heartedly on everyone else around him. And he's trying desperately to do that now, too.

He's able to hide his emotions from Hank, and that is why the therapist is able to joke with Dean and bring him out of his shell. In private, without Sam, Dean can be as close to himself as is possible right now. He can let his guard down and stop trying to maintain the wall around such a raw and oozing emotion. It doesn't take the same effort to pretend things are OK, because Hank doesn't know any different. To Hank, Dean's only obstacle is a physical one. And that, they can conquer.

But Sam knows Dean too well to be able to ignore the subtle nuances to his otherwise stoic demeanor. There are far too many tells that Dean has to work to keep hidden, and it's clearly taking a toll on him trying to keep Sam in the dark.

Suddenly clarity overtakes Sam and he drags himself to his feet, balancing precariously on the crutches in his hurried attempt to escape the viewing room. He has no business spying on Dean, no right trying to seek out information that isn't his to know. Dean needs to overcome his problems just like anyone else, and Sam knows the ramifications of what happened to Dean will not go away quickly. But now he also realizes that for Dean, sharing with his little brother how Adam and Lori Ann violated him will be more of a detriment than a help.

Sharing only means placing an additional burden on Dean because, in doing so, he would not only feel the strain to get himself past his emotional problems, but also a pressure to help Sam through it. It's not only Dean's nature to protect his little brother from the nightmare's of the world - it's his job.

When Hank returns Dean to his hospital room Sam has done a complete about face. The only question he asks is how the therapy went, and then moves on immediately to lighter topics - the abnormal weather, the limited options on TV, and the lack of hot nurses on the floor. Dean still doesn't smile yet, clearly still on edge about Sam's intentions, but he seems to relax just a bit. For now, that is enough for Sam.

* * *

Milla, formerly the doctor zombon, waits over a week to come back and visit again. Once again, she taps hesitantly on the doorframe, unsure whether or not she's interrupting something. Dean is working on his walking and balance, holding onto the back of his wheelchair as he pushes it back and forth across the room while Sam pretends not to hover as closely as he is. And Dean pretends not to be annoyed.

Both boys look up at Milla's knocking and Sam motions her to come inside, before looking pointedly at Dean, facial expression telling the older hunter to sit down. Dean rolls his eyes, but grabs onto Sam's forearm and shuffles around from behind the wheelchair, easing himself gingerly into the open seat.

"What can we do for you, Milla?" Dean rasps. Immediately, his hand comes up to press against the still healing hole in his throat, and he winces. It is covered with gauze, but it doesn't make the pain any more tolerable, doesn't make the sound any stronger.

Beside Dean, Sam sits down on the bed and waits for the doctor to explain her presence. Together, the brothers watch as she purses her lips and looks down at her hands.

"I've uh...I've been thinking about what happened. About your reaction to it. Neither one of you seemed too surprised at the way Adam controlled us–" she hesitates, brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, and finally makes eye contact. "I think you two know more about what went on in that old school building than even I did - I was hoping we could figure some things out together."

Sam laughs nervously and catches his brother's eye. They hold a silent conversation as they debate on how much of their lives they want to divulge. Dean finally nods his head, offering Sam the go ahead and his trust to say what he feels is right.

"You know that wasn't the first time we had met Adam, right?" Sam asks, remembering that she was in the room when Adam broke the news of his past possession.

Milla nods hesitantly, and waits expectantly for Sam to continue.

"And you heard him mention demons? And being healed for a time?"

Another nod. Milla's eyes dart nervously from brother to brother, and Sam takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He's not sure this is the best decision. But he's also not sure how else to explain the situation.

"Well...it was true. All of it." Sam holds his breath, waiting for the timid doctor in front of him to freak out, or pass out, one or the other. When she doesn't, he continues.

"My brother and I, it's our job to hunt down and destroy all that crazy, supernatural stuff that no one seems to think exists. And I guess Adam got pissed off when we went and took away his ticket to freedom. Thing was, he wasn't really free - he was just a pawn to the demon. You see where I'm going with this?"

Surprisingly, Milla looks at Sam with a semblance of clarity and trust. Not only does she believe what he's saying, but she is accepting it. "So I wasn't just going crazy with the whole mind control thing he did to me and those two nurses. It was real?"

"It felt real, didn't it?"

And so, together, the three of them hash out scenario after scenario of how Adam managed what he did, and how Milla and the two nurses managed to free themselves when they did. With the right line of questioning and some of Sam's fancy fingerwork with the police database, they finally realize that the zombons breaking free was nothing more than sheer luck.

Sam spends a full minute snorting and chuckling at the karma that has fallen on Lori Ann and Adam before he is even able to breath enough to share his news with the other two. "So get this," he says, turning the laptop so it is more visible. "Turns out our friendly neighborhood kidnappers had a cat."

His finger spins around the page until he comes to the decisive line, a twinkle still lighting up his eyes. "They were keeping control over the 'zombons' by way of a simple ritual with candles and incense, some personal items from each of the three of you. And I guess, right around the time that they were forcing a decision out of Dean the cat jumps up on this table and knocks one of the burning candles on its side. The flame spreads over the entire table, igniting everything it touches, and rendering the spell useless."

"That's it?" Dean asks. Disappointment clouds his features as he ingests the anticlimactic ending to such a devastating ordeal. "All that shit they put me through? And it's a _cat_ that ends this?"

Smacking Dean on the back, Sam wipes away a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye. "Dude, you were saved by a cat."

Milla seems uncomfortable by the brothers blase banter, and she plays with the hem of her blouse nervously while eyeing each of them in turn. "Just think if it hadn't have jumped up there just then," she scolds. "Where would we be right now? What would have happened to–"

"Not something I want to think of right now," Dean interrupts. "What's done is done - things worked out alright."

"Yeah, but–"

"But nothing," Dean insists, glaring at the woman and willing her to stop her line of thinking. She doesn't realize that the same thoughts are running though his mind at the same instant. _If the cat hadn't done what it did, he would be a quadriplegic. He would be permanently trapped in his body, and Sammy might be..._ It's not something he wants to think about. Dean's method of dealing with this stuff is avoidance and she is clearly not buying into that logic.

"Yeah, well you might be able to forget everything that happened," she says, voice pitched and clearly anxious, "but I can't. This...this thing that happened–" Milla stops dead, looking at the suddenly steely gazes of both Winchester brothers, and realizes she has been dismissed. "I guess I should go then."

"I think that would be wise," Sam agrees. Suddenly he's feeling very sick to his stomach. He too is realizing all too well just how close Dean came to his life being permanently changed. It's not a pleasant feeling.

Milla stands to leave, and Sam stands with her. He hobbles painfully after her, knee still throbbing, and closes the door behind the woman before turning to face his brother.

A minute passes in silence where they both fight the urge to scream, and Dean breaks in with his usual sarcasm and makes everything all right.

"That woman has got some serious issues, dude. Getting all upset over a little cat." He laughs nervously, and Sam joins in a few seconds later, both using the laughter to suppress the heavy feelings of dread in the pits of their stomachs. They will never speak of this again, will never discuss the day that Dean's life nearly ended.

* * *

Another week passes before the doctor's give Dean the ok to be released. By that time he has nearly climbed every wall in the hospital in his quest to alleviate the boredom, and in the end it is Sam, practically down on his still healing knees, that convinces that doctor to allow Dean to finish out his therapy as an outpatient.

When the day comes, Dean happily hobbles back and forth across the room packing his bag. He doesn't even grouse or complain, doesn't even pull the 'injured hero card, in an attempt to get Sam to do his work for him - he is that happy to be getting out of the sterile environment.

Dean is nearly done with his packing when Sam limps back into the room, sporting a matching cane to the one Dean is relying heavily on. "You're sprung," he announces, waving the paperwork in front of Dean's face like a white flag.

"Thank God!" Dean gasps. He tosses the last of his clothes into the old duffle and quickly pulls the zipper closed. Flinging the bag over his shoulder, Dean closes his fingers tightly around the head of the cane and begins to shuffle his way to the door. "Let's blow this popsicle stand, little brother," he beams.

And then, "Oh hell no!" as his face drops at the sight of an orderly pushing a wheelchair into the room behind Sam. "No way, not on your fucking life."

Dean looks cornered, like a wild animal, as his gaze darts from Sam to the orderly. It's clear he's terrified of the prospect of getting back in the chair, even if it's just a temporary ride from his room to the front doors of the hospital. It is too close to a reality he doesn't want to relive.

"Sorry dude, hospital policy," the orderly says, inching closer to Dean.

For his part, Sam looks genuinely apologetic about the wheelchair, but that still doesn't change the fact that they're expecting the older Winchester to use it.

"I just spent the better part of this past month in one of those things. There is no way you are _ever _getting be back in one. Ever. Again. You just get some paper or something and I'll sign it. I fall, it's my fault. I won't sue the hospital. Promise."

"There's gotta be another way," Sam insists, putting himself between the orderly and Dean. Out of the corner of his eye he can see his older brother inching along the wall toward the door, and knows instinctively what is about to happen. He catches the gaze of the orderly and holds onto it as he pleads with the older man to let up on the policy just this once.

The guy holds steady. "I could lose my job over this. Sorry man, can't do it."

But Sam continues to argue, pressing insistently until he's certain that enough time has passed for Dean to make his escape. He's amazed at the fact that he's managed to distract the orderly to the point that Dean could actually walk out of the room, but Sam isn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Alright, well, when you can find my brother you go ahead and force his butt into that wheelchair there," Sam finally says, putting a stop to the conversation. He slaps the orderlies shoulder jovially, before grabbing the remaining bag and skirting out the door. Without even looking behind him Sam knows the guy is standing completely stupefied, mouth agape, and Sam laughs to himself as he makes his way down the hall to the elevators.

Dean is nowhere to be seen, and Sam can only assume that he is already on his way down to the front doors of the hospital. Arriving on the ground floor, Sam sees that he is right. Not only has Dean made it out of the hospital, but he's circling his car, rubbing his hands all over the newly refurbished Impala as though he's just found the holy grail.

"The car looks amazing, Sam." He beams at his brother, and then slowly lowers himself down so that he's face to face with the grill. Squinting, Dean scrutinizes every single detail of the body work that's been done to his baby, seemingly satisfied with the outcome.

Immediately, any residual doubt Sam might have had about having the car repaired flies out the window. Seeing Dean with his beloved car, Sam can't even believe he doubted a reunion for one second.

"Yeah, well, had to have some way of gettin' around," Sam says nonchalantly, shrugging. He takes the few steps to where Dean is now struggling to bring his legs back underneath him, face wrought in determination to get himself back to a stand without help. Sam respects his brother's need for independence, standing just close enough to help if Dean starts to fall, and swelling with pride as Dean manages to pull himself up on his own.

"You ready to go, or do you two need a few more minutes?"

Dean laughs, swats playfully at his little brother, and moves toward the passenger side of the car. "I'm ready."

Sam tries not to look too surprised that Dean doesn't even give a thought to driving, but sighs in relief at the same time for the averted argument. Although he's no more surprised at the proclamation Dean makes a few minutes later as they drive down the road toward a hotel at least a few hours away.

"Don't get too comfortable in the driver's seat," Dean announces, leaning over to swap out one of Sam's emo tapes for one from his own prized collection. "Soon as I got my sea legs back under me you're never gettin' your scrawny ass near that seat again. You got it?"

Sam can only nod, all too happy at the prospect of Dean being healthy enough to drive to argue semantics of Sam's 'never driving again.' It's enough just to have Dean back to being Dean again. "Whatever you say, bro. She's all yours."

**_Kay...hope that was satisfactory. I'm never happy with the ending, but there's only so many times you can write something before you just say screw it! Just post already. And now for the poll...I've got 4 different stories in the works and I've got to decide which one to focus on next. So let me know which of the 4 plot lines you want to see next, and the winner will be what I finish first. _**

**_A) is the follow on to Hanging On By A Thread_**

**_B) is a blind Dean story _**

**_C) is a deaf Dean story (by request from a wonderful reader)_**

**_D) is a 'mysterious illness' affecting Sam_**

**_Thanks again for sticking with me through this story. Hope to see you all again soon! _**


	12. Chapter 12

Hey Guys! Happy New Year!

In honor of the New Year I thought I would drop by to let you all know that I will be posting the new AU sequel to Retribution very soon – the plan is to post Sunday, the 3rd. I have 7.5 of 8 chapters completed for the first arc of this story and feel confident that I can complete the last of it by the time I get to chapter 8. I will be posting on a weekly basis, probably every Sunday. You will find _Redemption_ posted both on fanfiction and on livejournal (under the same author name). I've had an account with livejournal for a while now, but have yet to post anything there. However, in writing Redemption I also discovered the awesomeness that is photoshop and have several pictures to share with this story. Therefore, you can read just a straight story on fan fiction or you can read an "illustrated" story at livejournal. Hope to hear from all of you soon! Thanks so much for all your patience – you guys are awesome. : )

~neonchica.


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